Heartlines
by SeleneLiath
Summary: Éomer did not know his wife. She did not know him. It seemed they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But trials and triumphs will bring them together and strengthen their country... RxR if you please.
1. Meeting

**A/N: For the purpose of this story, I have based Lothíriel's appearance on Katie McGrath's Morgana from the "Merlin" series.**

Chapter 1: Meeting

"She's lovely." That's all he ever heard about this enigmatic fiancée of his. Éomer scowled, his eyes on the plate before him. She may be prettier than all the stars in the sky, but the real question was – could she be a queen and a wife? Éomer needed an heir - a strong, wise, handsome heir. Well, the last bit wasn't necessarily a mandatory component, but rather, an unspoken one. Shaking his head, the young king stood, leaving his untouched breakfast on the table. His wife would arrive within the next few hours and everything would be alright. That is what he told himself, time and again.

"She seems fair enough," Gamling murmured between bites.

"She may be fair… and stupid," Éomer muttered, pacing the stone floor. They waited in Meduseld for the Gondorian party to arrive bringing the King's future wife.

"I do not think so, my lord. I have heard she has three brothers and grew up in the company of men. Her skills match those of a Gondorian soldier. I have also been told she bears Elven blood in her veins." Éomer turned to his captain, eyebrows raised. Imrahil must be mad. And yet, this was so politically advantageous, Éomer could not imagine a more perfect union. He stalked impatiently across the floor until his Captain stood, a knowing look on his face.

"Come, my lord. Let us go for a ride. It will calm your nerves. The lady and her attendants will not be here for hours, yet." Éomer followed the older man to the stables. Firefoot peeked his head out of the stall and nickered at the King. Moments later, Gamling, Éomer, and three other men had saddled their horses and were heading down the path away from Edoras. Gamling was, in fact, right. Éomer felt substantially calmer on his horse. He almost forgot his duties as they cantered across the open field. Firefoot seemed especially eager to be outdoors, tossing his head, mane catching the breeze. The five men enjoyed an hour long ride, free of political strategies, irritating councilors and talk of women. One of the men pulled his horse to a halt, gazing over the western boarder.

"My lord, horses arrive." Indeed, a line of eight horses bearing riders came trotting through the brush toward Edoras. Éomer frowned. Certainly it was not his betrothed. He'd expected a carriage and at least twelve Gondorian guards, being that she was a princess and all. Gamling shrugged.

"What Princess comes without an escort and attendants?" Éomer asked, voicing the other men's silent question.

"Perhaps this is not her company. This could be King Elessar's men, come to witness the wedding."

"Probably," another man agreed. They were too far away to tell the gender of these riders as they made a line straight for Edoras. But Éomer was confident that this company did not include his bride to be.

"But we should return to greet them. As it is, it looks as though they will arrive before us." Éomer nodded to Gamling as they guided their horses back to home. The five horses entered the city and rode toward the stable. The King could see the Gondorian helmets sparkle silver in the sunlight before they disappeared beyond the barn's roof. Éomer led his men to Meduseld, dismounting Firefoot with a somber expression. Facing away from the building, Éomer released the buckle on Firefoot's girth.

"My King," a Gondorian guard called out. Éomer turned around as the man continued. "May I present Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his daughter, the Princess Lothíriel."

Éomer's eyebrows rose in surprise and mild embarrassment as he faced his soon-to-be wife and her father. Imrahil bowed quickly, a grin on his rugged face. His dark hair was combed back, the ends resting on the fur collar of his riding jacket. Éomer returned the bow, feeling the blood rush to his neck and cheeks with humiliation. When he looked up, a matronly woman had come to flank Imrahil's left, eyes regarding the young King. This must've been his fiancée's chaperon, for her attire was simple.

Imrahil greeted the King of Rohan, but his words fell on deaf ears, for Éomer was looking at the young woman who'd come to stand on her father's right. For once, at least, the rumors had been true. She was lovely. Beautiful, even. She stood taller than most of the women of Rohan, with fair skin and a slender waist. Unlike the company of blond people of Edoras, this woman's hair was the deepest shade of night, loose about her. Her eyes were wide and a translucent grey, similar to her father's. There was a depth to their color that Éomer had seen in Legolas' eyes as well as in Aragorn's consort, Arwen's eyes. This woman was of Elvish decent. She bowed her head gracefully, her expression stoic. Éomer bowed as well in greeting.

"Éomer King?" Imrahil arched an eyebrow as Éomer turned to him.

"I'm sorry, my lord?"

"I asked if it was customary in Rohan to greet others without words," the Prince said. Éomer was taken-aback by this, but Imrahil smiled deeply.

"My lady Lothíriel and Imrahil Prince, welcome to Edoras," Lady Berewyn greeted them, flanking Éomer with a deep curtsy. "I am Berewyn, Lady Lothíriel's lady-in-waiting." The aging Mistress Berewyn had been Eowyn's chief attendant and now the Queen of Rohan was her new charge. The strikingly thin woman watched the Princess, as if to judge her immediate character.

"A pleasure, Lady Berewyn," Lothíriel replied. Her voice was lower than Éomer expected. She really did bear a striking resemblance to Queen Arwen. The Princess of Dol Amroth gestured to the woman behind her. "This is Lady Ivriel, my attendant." Lady Ivriel bowed awkwardly, her long braid falling over one shoulder.

"Let us bear your belongings to the bedchamber. You have endured a lengthy ride, and have done so upon a horse rather than a carriage. Come, let me escort you, the Prince and your guards to the Golden Hall where you may eat and rest," Lady Berewyn said with a stiff smile. She ushered the Princess, her attendant and guards into Meduseld with barely a glance at the King. Imrahil placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder as the women left.

"She's a good woman, my daughter."

"Yes, my lord."

"I am here to witness the wedding, but must leave tomorrow," the Prince said. "The White City requires my attendance as she is being rebuilt and I have several council meetings, I'm afraid. I regret not having the chance to acquaint myself with you, but King Elessar assures me you are a decent and noble man." Imrahil offered a wink and followed his daughter's company into Meduseld. Gamling came to stand beside Éomer, scratching his beard, watching him depart.

"Well he seems nice enough."

"Indeed." The King gave Firefoot's reins to the stable boy and trailed the Prince into the Golden Hall. It was prepared for the nuptials, with white and gold garlands. Though not as lavish as Aragorn's wedding, or even Eowyn's, it was undeniably magnificent. Éomer felt a pang of regret, knowing his sister could not attend his marriage. She was in Minas Tirith with her husband helping to restore the damaged city. With a sigh, the King of Rohan turned from the sight. He had to prepare for the wedding.

Freshly washed and clothed, King Éomer of Rohan stood at the altar, waiting for his bride. The green tunic he wore was his fathers, embroidered with gold and red threads. He had to admit, it was a handsome piece of cloth with the symbol of Rohan stitched perfectly onto the back. Presiding over the wedding was Lord Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-Mark and a long time companion of the King. The man fidgeted in the seemingly uncomfortable long robes. Éomer smiled inwardly at his old friend's impatience. The entirety of the Rohirrim court was present, along with the riders of the Mark. Prince Imrahil and his Gondorian guards stood to Éomer's left, their helmets under their arms. Once the ceremony was over, they would return to Gondor, leaving Lothíriel and her lady.

All eyes were on the King as they waited. Éomer was only slightly nervous. But this was the best thing for his people. With Lothíriel's generous dowry, the winter would not be so difficult to bear for the farmers who had lost their crops to the war. Fewer households would perish under the harshness of the winters. And hopefully Éomer would have an heir sooner than later.

-o-

Lothíriel stood before the washbasin in dark the chamber, awaiting Lady Berewyn's word. Her heart thudded so loudly in her chest she was quite sure the gatherers beyond could hear its echo. It was almost impossible for her to imagine she was getting married, even less so that she would soon become a Queen. Before she left Gondor, she studied the histories of Rohan, hoping to gain some insight regarding its people and customs. She found herself asking the King of Gondor about the Riders of the Mark and his impression of Edoras. He should not have offered to answer her questions, she thought wryly. But here she was, far from her brothers and beloved Dol Amroth. She found a bit of solace in her father's presence, though she knew he'd have to leave the next day. Perhaps it would not be so horrible.

She straightened her back a little as Lady Ivriel smoothed the skirts, removing invisible fragments of lint from the fabric. The poor woman looked exhausted from her previous equestrian activities, but gave a reassuring smile to her charge. For Lothíriel, the ride to Rohan had not been as rough as she'd been told. In fact, it was rather delightful to spend long hours astride her favourite horse with her father and their guards as company.

She had been pleased when Imrahil allowed her to select her chaperon for her journey. While Lady Ivriel was not accustomed to sitting in a saddle for extended periods of time, Lothíriel knew the woman didn't object to the Princess riding a horse. Ivriel had been present at the Princess' birth and had been her attendant there forth, knowing Lothíriel's preferences and habits. Ivril smiled to herself as she arranged the cloak around the Princess' shoulders. Even as a girl, Lothíriel had always been partial to the equine species. But why on earth wouldn't she be, with her wildly rambunctious active brothers?

"It is time, my lady," the Lady Berewyn whispered, opening the door. Lothíriel glanced at Ivril, who offered the Princess an encouraging smile. With a resolute sigh and squaring of her shoulders, Lothíriel made her way to the altar.

Faced toward the doors of Meduseld, Éomer watched his bride traverse the aisle. She was, in fact, a sight to behold. Her dress was a greyer shade of white, not as bright or brilliant as Eowyn's dress had been. A cape was draped upon Lothíriel's shoulders; the hem embroidered with the same golden thread as the King's, the emblem of Rohan sewed into the back of the cape as well. Her dark hair was plaited and wrapped in a coronet around her head, a few tendrils framing her pale face.

Éomer held his hand to her as she approached and she took it, barely offering him a glance. Her skin was cool to the touch, soft and smooth. She faced Elfhelm, who gave the couple a quick smile before speaking their vows. Éomer took the golden grown from the pillow as Lothíriel declined her head. He placed it behind the coronet and she raised her head. He had to admit, she looked every inch the Queen she was. She took the second crown and lifted it above his head, this movement causing her breasts to swell under the dress. Éomer smirked inwardly at his masculine interest. She placed the crown upon his head, her fingers brushing his forehead. Together, they turned to face the people of Rohan, who applauded. Éomer glanced at Imrahil, who was smiling broadly. Perhaps this was a wise decision on all accounts.

The wedding celebration commenced and the ale flowed freely. Lothíriel walked beside her husband as he introduced her to his people. She greeted each person politely, a shadow of a smile on her full lips.

"My lady," Gamling bowed, kissing the back of her hand. "You shall make Rohan proud, there is no doubt."

"That is my wish," she replied calmly. She stood just an inch shorter than Éomer and they made an impressive couple.

"A drink for my Queen?" Lothíriel turned to see a man offering her a mug of warm liquid. She accepted with an appreciative nod. Her throat was parched with all the salutations she'd done. Before she left Gondor, Eowyn had given her a brief description of the most important people she would meet. But there were so many faces, all of them blonde and smiling with the effects of ale it was difficult to keep track.

Her husband placed his hand on her waist, steering her toward another man of Rohan, who smiled widely. Lothíriel followed the same pattern of introduction and expressed her interest when the man proceeded to explain the state of his business as a blacksmith. Her thoughts, however, strayed beyond the noisy hall, across the grassy plains of Rohan, over the White Mountains and resided in Gondor. Dol Amroth, to be exact. She wondered what her brothers were doing at that moment. She figured they were making a bit of mischief and wished dearly she could join them. She longed to sit beside her father, the both of them reading peacefully in the large library. Lothíriel already missed the scent of the sea and the touch of sand.

She was jarred back to reality as her husband gripped her hand, tugging gently so she might follow. She couldn't decide much about him, as he spoke very little. But his demeanor was amiable enough and he was certainly handsome. Eowyn made sure Lothíriel was well versed in her betrothed's various moods, ranging from the occasional facetious comments to the raging storm of his anger. The Queen of Rohan hoped she would not have to experience that first hand for a long time.

Éomer found his palms sweaty as the evening waxed and waned. His wife's skin remained cool to the touch as he escorted her through the crowd. He wondered privately if she was as nervous as he. For he knew that soon he would have to take her to bed. Glancing to the side, he caught sight of Prince Imrahil, talking with his guards. Guiding Lothíriel to him, he left her in her father's company, assuming they had much to speak of. Éomer made his way to where the tankard of ale stood and was unsurprised to find his captains, Gamling and Elfhelm, there.

"Your thoughts?" the Marshal asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"She is fair, Elfhelm," the King replied with a shrug.

"Quiet, though."

"Better than a chatty maid," Gamling answered with a shudder. "Some of those women have mouths like fish." Éomer and Elfhelm chuckled as Gamling demonstrated the women's mouths, opening and closing his comically. "I say, my lord, better to have a quiet, complacent woman than a yapping one."

Éomer found himself in agreement. His friends picked up two mugs of ale, to which the young King declined. He spent another hour with his captains, trying to appear as much of a King as he felt he lacked. But all too soon he felt the air in Meduseld become stale and thick. He excused himself of their company to outdoors. The night sky was endless, filled with stars. Éomer stood on the stone terrace that led into the Golden Hall, listening to the sounds of merriment within.

"Such a serene night, my lord." Éomer turned to his left to see Lothíriel several feet away. He hadn't even noticed her presence.

"Yes, it is." He answered, watching her. Grey eyes gazed at the scenery, her expression placid. A gentle breeze stirred her skirts and lifted her hair from her shoulders. She was a lovelier bride than he could have imagined for himself. Perhaps he would grow to love her.

"I am told the winters here are terribly cold." Her voice carried with the wind, pleasant to his ears.

"They take time to get accustomed to," he agreed. Turning to her, he glanced at the doors leading into the Golden Hall. "Shall we retire, my lady? The festivities will continue long into the night." She looked at him for the first time, and he caught a spark in her grey eyes. But it disappeared as she closed her eyes and when she opened them, it was gone.

"Of course, my lord."


	2. Patience and Understanding

Chapter 2: Patience and Understanding

She sat on the bed, uncoiling her hair from atop her head. Her movements were slow and deliberate, taking time to un-plait the thick strands. Éomer stood before the full-length mirror, watching her in the reflection. Truly, their children would be handsome. It did, however, bother him that his wife seemed so detached. He wished there was some way to connect with her to make this easier.

Turning around, he crossed the floor to sit at the desk. Removing his ceremonial wedding attire, he chanced another glance at her. With her hair unbound, Lothíriel looked as ethereal as Arwen. But her face was narrower than the Queen of Gondor's, with high cheekbones and a defined jaw-line. She met his gaze, her grey eyes guarding her thoughts well as she tucked a lock of midnight hair behind her ear.

He ran his fingers through dark blonde hair, watching her as she pulled the pins from her tresses. Previously captured locks tumbled from their restraints, falling with buoyancy. Éomer stood and walked to the other side of the large bed. The only light in the chamber was given by a candle on either side of the bed. The soft flame illuminated his wife's serene face. Éomer dropped his eyes to the ground.

"If you do not wish to do this tonight, we do not have to," he murmured, turning to look at her. "I have been taught never to take a woman against her will and would not wish to hurt you." He caught the edges of her lips pulling into a small smile.

"Thank you, my lord." Her expression softened slightly in the dim light. "But I am prepared to do my duty as wife and queen." She paused for a moment, gauging his visage. "Besides, if we do not, there will be talk of barrenness…" Lothíriel trailed off, leaving an unspoken thought in the negative space between them. She was right, he realized. The servants would know tomorrow if their union had not been consummated and Éomer could not fathom having to deal with gossip about sterility.

Lothíriel pulled her legs into the bed and blew the candle on her side out. If she was nervous, she hid it well. He somewhat admired her courage. Drawing a quick sigh, the King followed his wife's example, snuffing the final candle and stretching into bed. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to get aroused like this, so they lay in the darkness for several moments. He listened to her steady breathing and found it soothing. He tried to imagine her without clothes and felt a slight stirring in his groin. He reached for her, his hand resting on her hip.

"May I?" he asked stupidly. He could almost imagine her smiling in the dark. She took his hand, bringing it to her breast and he felt her heart beat beneath the thin fabric of the nightdress. He closed his eyes and repositioned himself on top of her. He lay braced upon his forearms, one on either side of her head and he opened his eyes. Her grey eyes watched him as she pulled the dress slowly past her knees, thighs and waist. He settled between her legs, praying he would not hurt her. She gave a single nod to him.

He slipped into her, feeling her warmth envelope him. Her hand grasped his forearm tightly as her eyes closed quickly, a pained moan repressed in her throat. He held himself there, terrified that he'd somehow injured her. He watched her, bathed in the faint moonlight, a tear glistening in the corner of one eye. Her body lay taut beneath him, her fingers pressing against his skin.

After a moment, he felt her body relax slightly. Éomer released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as his wife became more comfortable with him. He wanted to wipe away the tear, which made its way down the side of her face as she opened her eyes. They masked her thoughts from him, but he knew she had been in pain. She turned her face to the side, grey eyes staring out the window, gazing beyond the White Mountains, seeing what Éomer could not.

After he was certain the tenseness was gone, he began to move slowly. His hips thrust rhythmically, feeling the desire build within him. She felt pure and welcoming to him, though he knew she didn't feel the same way. He found himself wishing he could give Lothíriel some pleasure. He felt her smooth thighs on either side of him, holding him to her gently. Her breasts pressed against his chest as she breathed deeply. Her back arched instinctively as his release came. He buried his face in the crook of her neck as the waves calmed. Inhaling her scent of lavender and sage, Éomer felt at peace. Her silky hair brushed his cheek and he smiled against her skin, losing himself to the moment. Everything was forgotten to him except this feeling.

-o-

She hadn't expected him to be so gentle. And yet, when she felt the pain, it was so indescribable that she couldn't help but grasp his arm and shut her eyes. She had heard her fair tales of the first night in the marriage bed. She'd been told stories of men who threw their wives against the bed and forced themselves into the women. She grew up with a fearful curiosity of the marriage bed. And when that moment finally came, she was shocked that he'd been so patient. Was not the lust of a man untamable? Even the most placid of husband could find himself uncontainable while in the throes of passion. At least, that's what she'd heard.

But her husband had waited for her. He waited until she found her breath and her muscles eased. It still hurt. It was not something she would have done on her own will, but she was aware of her responsibility to her husband, her new country and to her family. It was her duty to produce an heir that would unite Gondor and Rohan in a tangible alliance.

Although she felt only a slight twinge of pleasure, his release caused her to arch and gasp. He lay against her, breathing heavily, his fingers entwined her hair. It seemed that he was completely oblivious to everything as he pressed his lips to her neck. His touch sent sparks down her spine and she knew she would regret the moment he left.

-o-

Éomer fell back into reality, recognizing his selfishness. Here he was with his beautiful wife who'd found, at best, minimal pleasure and he was soaring above the clouds having completely forgotten about her. With a sigh, Éomer realized he was still inside and on top of her. He withdrew gently and rolled to the side, her hair sliding like water from between her fingers.

"Good night, my lady," he whispered. She lay still for a moment before turning quietly from him and pulling the covers to her shoulders. Éomer drifted into a dreamless sleep.

The sunrise fell upon the young King's eyes as he stood by the window. He was naked, save for a pair of britches. Éomer rested an arm on the window arch and glanced back at his sleeping wife. She looked like a statuesque goddess, her face flushed in the morning light. Her dark hair fanned out upon the white pillow in lovely waves. The rise and fall of her chest was peacefully slow in slumber. He admitted to himself that Lothíriel was a beautiful woman and he was blessed to sire her children.

Éomer's day was consumed with meetings, the festivities of last night forgotten. After sending Prince Imrahil off with his guards, the young King was bombarded with various tasks and duties. Things had to be done, arrangements made. Éomer King stared at the maps before him, each one more detailed than the previous.

"The farmers of East Emnet lost a year's worth of crop and much of the soil," Elfhelm murmured. Éomer stared at the ink and paper, hoping it would give him some idea as to what to do.

"Our own supply dwindles, my lord. I cannot imagine we would have enough to feed our farmers as well."

The King pushed away from the table, the legs of his chair grating against the floor. He cursed under his breath, wishing for an easy solution to this. He dismissed his men, as the meeting had lasted a good two and a half hours. Staring at the maps, Éomer slumped into his seat, alone in the Golden Hall. It would not sit well with him to ask Aragorn for the extra food. As it was, Minas Tirith suffered its own depression with more the half the city being decimated. No, he could not do such a thing. His pride would not allow him to ask the King of Men for help. Éomer conceded that he was King and he would have to discover a way to save his people. It was his responsibility.

"My lord?" Shaken from his reverie, Éomer turned to see Lothíriel behind him, holding a plate of food. "They said you were not to be disturbed, but you haven't eaten in many hours." She did not appear timid or nervous, but rather strode into the hall and moved the maps to the side, placing the plate before him. He glanced up at her, eyebrows raised. Her hair was braided and pinned in a chignon at the nape of her neck. Her dress was a lovely dark green with silver trim. Her expression was unreadable, but pleasant. He began to eat the food and she turned. He leaned to the side and caught her wrist gently. She paused to look down at him.

"Will you join me, my lady?"

"As you wish, my lord."


	3. Discoveries

It became their routine. After his morning councils, Éomer would eat lunch with his wife. Sometimes his Captains would be present, other times they would dine alone. In those next weeks, the young King found himself enjoying the company of his beautiful and quiet consort. He spent most of his time in her absence, riding through the villages and consulting with his men. He did not know what she did with her spare time but imagined she sewed with the other women of the court and performed womanly duties that were expected of the Queen.

Their evening meals were taken in the company of the court, with Éomer's men and their wives present in the Great Hall. Lothíriel preferred to converse with the men, Éomer noticed. She tried to avoid the women and spoke as little as possible when she had to talk to them. Why, he wasn't sure.

But the truth was that, behind her back, Lothíriel was slandered as the Gondorian queen who knew nothing of the Rohan people. The women gossiped that she ensnared the handsome King with her spell and now sought to weaken him. They hypothesized that she would steal his child and return to the sea, leaving him lovesick and wounded. Lothíriel knew of these rumors, but said nothing on the subject. All Éomer knew was that it was difficult for her to adjust to the Rohirric lifestyle. He imagined it would take a while for his people to become accustomed to their new Queen.

The rest of their schedule was monotonous. Éomer worked late into the night at his desk with only a solitary candle for light. By the time he lay in bed, Lothíriel was asleep on her side of the mattress. He knew she wanted to stay up to welcome her husband to bed, but he often he worked so late that she fell asleep. He felt a pang of guilt for this, but there was nothing he could do. The work had to be done.

The sunlight streamed through the high windows as the wind swept through the valley, whipping against the houses of Edoras. Éomer, Lothíriel, Elfhelm, Gamling and three other men of the King's council sat together enjoying their food. They ate in silence, each in their own realm of thought.

"My lord," all heads turned to the Queen as she spoke. "Does Edoras have a healer?"

"Does my lady think we are so barbaric not to?" Gamling snapped, but quickly shut his mouth. Éomer caught a glimmer in Lothíriel's grey eyes before it faded.

"No. Of course not," she murmured.

"We do, my lady," Elfhelm answered congenially, dispelling the tense air. Lothíriel turned to Éomer.

"My lord, if I have your permission, I would like to spend my time during the day there. I find the womanly arts a bit too tedious and I spent a large part of my life in Gondor's Houses of Healing." The King listened until she finished and nodded.

"I do not see why not." He said, taking a drink from his mug. "My sister tells me in her letters that you are well missed in Gondor. She writes that you were known for your healing gifts."

"Certainly your sister embellishes," Lothíriel replied with a small smile. "True, I have always enjoyed helping others, but that does not require gifts of any sort."

"My lady Eowyn does not embellish, Lothíriel Queen," Gamling said quietly in attempt to remedy his previous outburst.

"I thank her for saying such." The woman offered him a gentle smile, which he returned broadly. Éomer smiled as well. Perhaps things were looking better for them.

-o-

Lothíriel pulled the cloak closer to her body as she made her way down the steps of Methuseld. The sky was a pale blue, lazy clouds floating across the vast expanse. While she missed the ocean horizon, it was impressive to gaze at the White Mountains and endless plains. She could grow to be rather fond of Edoras.

She followed the line of houses until she reached the one indicated by Lady Berewyn an hour before. Lothíriel thankful for the woman's kindness toward her, but she could not imagine spending another day sewing in the company of the Rohirric women, most of whom never met Lothíriel's eye. She knew it seemed conceited to just remove herself from the group, but it didn't matter as much as those women pretended it did. But Lothíriel was glad Ivriel was welcomed there. She and Lady Berewyn had become quick friends, which pleased Lothíriel immensely. Ivriel had given up just as much as her charge had when leaving Dol Amroth. At least she'd found a friend here.

The door to Master Falas' home was a thick slab of wood that required several hard knocks to be heard. Lothíriel waited on the doorstep glancing at those who passed her. She was easily picked from a crowd with her height and dark hair. She smiled and acknowledged the people until the healer opened his door. He was aging man, bent over slightly from years of hunching above patients. His once blonde hair was white at the temple and sparse. His dark eyes met hers as he fell into a clumsy bow. "Oh, my lady Queen," he muttered hurriedly, bowing again.

"It's alright Master Falas," she said quickly, placing a hand on his arm. He looked up at her, white eyebrows rising. Blinking, he ushered inside the house, which seemed more appropriate with the title of hovel. The only light present filtered through two grimy windows and cast pearly rays here and there. The space was thick with the fragrance of herbs, spices and books. There were boxes, pots, herbs and other such clutter in the small space, making it difficult to find a place to stand.

"What is it I can do for you, my lady Queen," he queried, scurrying around the limited space, picking up a broom, setting it down, arranging a mess of papers, removing a stack of parchments from a chair and offering it to her. "Are you ill?"

"No Master Falas, I am not. But I was wondering, hoping really," she paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "Would it be possible if I could help you?"

"Help me with what, my lady?" the old man appeared incredulous, having stopped mid-tidy to look at the young Queen.

"Oh, anything you might need assistance with," she replied, waving her hand lightly. "I spent most of my childhood with the healer of Dol Amroth. I know something about the art of healing and I have found a passion for it. Perhaps I could be of some help to you, with the ill…" She watched him in the dim light, trying to judge his reaction. At first, she thought she might've said something incorrectly in Rohirric, because the old man looked confused.

"Help me?" He repeated. The Queen nodded. Falas rubbed the grey stubble on his chin thoughtfully. Truthfully, he had never had an offer for assistance, especially from a woman. A queen, even. "I suppose that would be quite welcomed. The winter is drawing closer and I could use an extra pair of hands. That is, my lady, if you don't mind cleaning wounds and making teas." "Not at all," she answered with a smile. Finally, she thought. A place I feel somewhat at home.

-o-

That night, Éomer sat at his desk, reading through the archive of past kings. He hoped to garner some sense of what to do to help his people. Winter would come soon and with the state his country was in, many of the farmers and their families would not survive to see the spring. Frustrated, Éomer closed his eyes, surrendering his head to the palm of his hand supported by his elbow, which rested on the table's surface. Finding only a moment's solace in the cradle of his hand, the King looked up and rubbed his tired eyes.

He heard the bed behind him stir. He listened as Lothíriel vacated the bed, her quiet footfalls echoed by the sheet that was draped around her and dragging behind. She knelt beside his chair, one hand on his shoulder as she surveyed the mess of papers.

"Is it possible to bring the farmers to Edoras for the winter?" she asked, her voice soft in the night air. Éomer looked at her as she stared intently at the desk.

"I do not think Edoras could hold so many, my lady. But it seems terrible that they should perish…"

"They won't," she said quickly. Éomer's eyebrows rose with surprise. Lothíriel was usually placid in her manner, but the spark of passion she displayed made the King of Rohan smile slightly. She glanced at him and frowned. "That will not happen, my lord. There must be a way to either help them sustain through the winter or relocate them temporarily until winter's end."

"I welcome any suggestions," he murmured, his dark eyes watching her keenly. She sighed quietly and stood.

"It is hardly possible to think, let alone make decisions at this hour of night. Come to bed," she said, retreating into the darkness. Éomer blew the candle out and followed her.

The next week progressed with little change. Éomer found himself without any solution to his problem. But he was pleased to see his wife with the healer. She spent most of her days with the old fellow, helping him. Lady Berewyn took it upon herself to watch over the young woman, should the gossipers say anything vicious. Lothíriel's own attendant, Lady Ivriel, kept with Berewyn and was slowly learning the language of Rohan. Berewyn had always been a compassionate soul. Éomer was grateful for the aging attendant who had been so kind to Eowyn and now Lothíriel.

The King wrote to his sister as often as he could. She was pregnant and extremely active in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith. She congratulated him on his marriage and told him that she knew for a fact that Lothíriel was a good match for him, for she'd met the princess before her departure to marry him. It gave him a bit of relief that his sister thought they were well matched. Because as much as he liked her company, he wasn't entirely sure he loved Lothíriel. He envied the love between his sister and her husband, Aragorn and Arwen, even his own parents. In her letter, Eowyn advised his brother to get to know his wife...

_"I know from certain experience that it is very difficult to acclimate to a new home with new people. Ask her what her life was like at home. Inquire into her past and I'm sure your bond will be strengthened."  
_

Éomer sighed and put the letter down. He knew she was right. He felt a surge of guilt for not taking the time to get to know his wife. But he'd been so busy and he was sure she did not want to tell him her life's story. Perhaps that could wait.

The King made his way back to his chambers. It was a little past midday after lunch and he wanted to collect his pile of letters from the desk. He was slightly embarrassed that Lothíriel had to see the place in such disarray, though she never said anything. He tidied the area up and was passing the privy when he heard the sound of someone gagging. Éomer paused at the door, listening to the agonizing sounds of a person vomiting. He set the papers down and tapped his knuckles against the door gently, causing the door to open.

Inside was Lothíriel, kneeling on the floor, her face bearing a sickly tint. Éomer rushed to kneel beside her, his eyes searching her face for an answer to an unspoken question. Before she could say anything, she turned and wretched into the toilet, coughing after. Éomer stood and stepped out to their room. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher beside the bed and returned to his wife, who had struggled to her feet. She accepted the water gratefully, draining the glass quickly.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she rasped, her voice hoarse.

"There is no need to apologize. But, is everything alright?" it seemed like a stupid question to ask, but he wasn't sure what else to say.

"Yes," she replied quietly. Then, a thought occurred to him.

"Are you with a child?"

"Yes," she confirmed. Éomer was at a loss at what to do. He was thrilled at the possibility of an heir, but it seemed inappropriate to touch her. So he smiled slightly and took the empty glass from her.

"That is good news," he mumbled hurriedly, turning to set the glass on the table.

"My lord, would you mind keeping this from the rest of the court?"

"As you wish. But why?"

"Your people are still… getting used to me. I do not wish to further burden them with this. Not yet," she looked at him, grey eyes pleading. Éomer offered another weak smile and nodded.

"Of course, my lady. Is there anything I can get you?"

"No, but thank you."

"Then I shall take my leave." Éomer left her standing by the privy as he rushed away, forgetting the papers and his task.


	4. Plans and Nerves

Chapter 4: Plans and Nerves

They didn't speak for the rest of the day. Éomer and his men rode out to make note of the boarders. The Dunlendings were becoming more aggressive since Éomer had returned from Gondor. He knew they had a slim chance of surviving the winter, since most of their homes were destroyed by default during the War. This perturbed the King because not only was there the fear of losing his people to the elements, but also to the threat of unhappy Dunlendings. He'd considered moving some of his farmers to Helms Deep for the winter, but abandoned the idea at the will of his advisors.

"Dunlendings passed through here just a few days ago, my lord," a man called back to Éomer. The middle-aged scout had been in the company of Théoden and was well known for his tracking abilities. He now knelt in the brush, indicating to the footprints that Éomer could barely see from atop his horse.

"There isn't much we can do now," the King murmured, turning Firefoot slightly to face the imposing mountain range. "Let's hope they have enough to worry about on their own without disturbing our people." He doubted that, but it was all he could offer to his men. The scout nodded in agreement and mounted his horse.

"The sun sets," Gamling noted. "We have been out later than usual."

"There is more to contend with than usual," Éomer responded, more to himself than Gamling. Then again, he considered, usual was a relative term. "We will return after the stars are bright in the sky. You are dismissed to your homes and I will see you in the morning," the King told his men with a curt nod.

They rode back to Edoras as night claimed the sky. After seeing to his steed, Éomer climbed the steps to Meduseld, each step bringing him closer to a decision he dreaded making. He didn't have an answer to the question that plagued him. He often wondered what Théoden would do, were he alive. He'd have found a way to save all of his people. Éomer pushed the door open heavily. His supper sat alone at the end of the long table. He was a bit surprised to eat without his Queen or her attendants and called for a maid, who came scurrying from the kitchen.

"Where is my wife?" he asked as he sat down.

"Unwell, my lord. She asked that you eat without her tonight." The girl curtsied and left Éomer alone. He ate slowly, contemplating the obstacles he faced. Realizing his thoughts had stripped him of his appetite; he beckoned a servant to take the plate away. He stood with his mug of ale and walked to his chambers. A fire burned in the bedroom as he closed the door behind himself. Lothíriel sat at his desk, looking at the maps of Edoras. Éomer's eyebrows rose at this as he continued into the room. At least she looked better than she had that afternoon, her skin returned to its natural colour.

"How are you feeling, my lady?" his voice startled her and she jumped. She'd been so engrossed with her work that she hadn't even heard him enter.

"Better, thank you," she replied, turning to look at him. "How was your ride?"

"Unproductive," he answered with a scowl. Wanting to forget such things, he walked to her side, looking over her shoulder. "You have the layout of the city?"

"Yes. And I noticed that this edifice –" she pointed to a fair sized building just beyond the barn, "is not used for anything."

"It was built by my uncle and was meant as storage, I believe. But it was never put to use. I suppose, by now, the structure is somewhat lacking."

"I visited it this afternoon," she said, staring at the parchments. "It has not completely fallen into ruin. A bit of work and it will be what it once was."

"A means of storage?"

"No." she turned to look at him, grey eyes illustrious in the muted light. "I would like to turn this into a healing ward."

"My lady?" Éomer knelt next to her, looking into her eyes, perplexed.

"The winter is fast approaching and, with so many of your farmers in need of food and shelter, it seems there will be need for one. Your healer, skilled as he is, cannot hold more than two people in the confines of his home. There should be a place in which the ill are tended to and cared for."

"I see the merit in that," he murmured. "I was impressed while in Minas Tirith. The Houses of Healing saved my sister's life, along with the lives of many warriors. But Falas is old, my lady. He can barely tend to his own needs in his failing age. How can we expect him to care for so many people?"

"I would help," she answered. "I have had enough experience in Dol Amroth, Minas Tirith and here. And I can teach some of the young girls." She watched him, awaiting his decision. He had to admit, it was a prudent idea. Éomer briefly recalled earlier days when winter maladies befell the villagers and they died without even seeing a healer. He met his wife's gaze and shrugged one shoulder.

"You do not need my permission," he said after a moment. "You are Queen, after all."

"But you know your people better than I." Grey eyes regarded him solemnly. He stood up and nodded.

"Then I think it is a well conceived plan. If you need help with anything, be it the rebuilding or furnishing, notify me and I'll see to it you are provided with what you desire."

-o-

What she desired was to go home. She offered him a smile of appreciation and turned away. He walked back to the bed as she collected the maps and returned them to their folders. Sitting with a clean desk before her, Lothíriel placed a hand on her stomach. It was too early for any person to tell she was pregnant. But she knew. She'd missed a cycle and she felt ill every morning. Lothíriel had spent enough time in the Houses of Healing to recognize her own body's signs of a babe growing inside of her.

She felt a surge of excitement. She was going to give birth to the child of Éomer son of Éomund, King of Rohan. But she also found herself saddened by this. She longed to return to Dol Amroth and tell her brothers in person. Already she sent letters to her siblings and father. Her pregnancy was joyous news, she knew. But she couldn't shake the feeling of unhappiness. She hoped it would fade as the pregnancy progressed.

"My lady?" Lothíriel turned to the bed where her husband sat. She realized she must have looked a bit ridiculous, staring off into space. Standing, she unbraided her hair and then joined him in bed. He glanced at her, his eyes moving from her face to her abdomen, which was still flat, bearing no clues as to what was growing within.

"Congratulations, my lord," she murmured, leaning back against the pillows. He met her eyes, a surprised expression painted on his handsome features.

"It is your child as well," he replied. She felt a faint blush spread to her cheeks, which made him smile slightly. With a gentle nod, he turned and blew the candle out.


	5. A Pleasant Moment Together

Chapter 5: A Pleasant Moment Together

Éomer woke with a start. Glancing to the sky beyond the window, he realized it was earlier than usual. He felt his wife's body lying beside him, her back to him. Her shoulders rested against his chest and her legs lay touching his. He reveled in her warmth, dreading the cold he would have to face when he left the bed. Now that he knew she was pregnant, he made a silent promise to get to know her more deeply. Her father had mentioned her sharp wit and love of books, but Éomer was not yet privy to her mannerisms. He regretted not taking the time earlier to make her feel more at home, enough at least to allow her to feel comfortable.

He shifted to the side, making ready to leave their warm bed. Lothíriel roused, turning to face him. She was beautiful, her hair laying in ebony waves around her head, lids heavy with sleep. There was a faint blush to her cheeks and her lips looked utterly enticing to the King. He offered her a smile and pulled the covers to her neck.

"Go back to sleep, my lady," he whispered. She frowned, her black brows furrowing as she sat up, leaning against her elbows.

"Are you unwell, my lord?" she asked, her voice sliding through the morning air like velvet.

"No," he replied. She watched him as he pulled the warm boots on and shrugged the thick cape over his shoulders against the cold. Moving to the fireplace, he arranged last night's embers and lit the kindling. He felt her cool eyes on him as he walked to the washbasin.

"What are your plans for the day?" she inquired quietly. He was momentarily surprised with her curiosity. Splashing the water into his face, he rubbed his neck, feeling the stubble of his beard.

"I have a meeting with Elfhelm regarding the Dunlendings," he answered. He was sure there would be more to it, but he didn't wish to burden her with banal information.

"Could I trouble you for a favor?"

"Anything, my lady." He turned to look at her, the question piquing his interest.

"Would you take a ride with me? Not for too long," she added quickly. "I have missed your company and it would be pleasant, I think. But I understand if you are too busy. Certainly your priorities are well defined and I would not wish to -"

"It would be my pleasure," he said, smiling. She returned the smile, her expression softening. "I was going to check the weapon inventory this morning after breakfast, but I much prefer your suggestion."

"After breakfast, then."

Said meal was taken in the company of Éomer's Captains and Lothíriel's attendants. The young Queen informed Gamling about the art of boat handling. Éomer smiled to himself, for it seemed his wife was acclimating better to her surroundings. Her personality seemed to have blossomed, as he hoped it would have.

"Most assuredly, my lady, I have never set foot on a boat, let alone handled one." Gamling grinned broadly as the Queen laughed softly.

"It is not much different from handling a horse. Only, it is a bit bigger and you are not sitting astride."

"A good thing, that," Éomer put in with a smirk at his friend. Lothíriel glanced at him, her grey eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Indeed, my lord," Gamling muttered, making a face at the thought of himself straddling anything made of wood.

After breakfast, Lothíriel excused herself with her ladies. Éomer sympathized, since she'd probably gone to wretch her food up. No doubt pregnancy pains were nuisance and he admired women for what they had to put up with.

He made his way to the barn to groom Firefoot in preparation for the ride. He found himself looking forward to spending time with Lothíriel, He figured it would be the opportune time to do as Eowyn suggested and get to know his wife. Carefully brushing his horse's coat, Éomer allowed himself to ponder his troubles. The Dunelendings were causing more trouble than they were worth. It seemed they found a way to evade him every time. There was also the problem of orcs. Faramir had written him a letter detailing the bands of miscreant orcs that lurked in the mountains north of Ithilien. This proved a problem if they moved farther west and beyond the mountain range, for they'd then be on Rohirric territory. And that was the last thing the young King needed. The thought of orcs pillaging the already frail villages made Éomer scowl deeply, his hand tightening on the curry.

"Be ware, my lord," a voice said behind him. "You might brush his hide right off." Éomer turned to see Lothíriel leaning against the stall door. Firefoot immediately sought her out, looking for treats. She smiled and pulled a carrot from the deep pockets of her blue riding dress. The horse relieved it of her quickly, chewing contentedly.

"You've made a friend for life," Éomer said with a light smile.

"Then I am glad, for he seems a good friend to have." The woman scratched between the equine's ears, ruffling his forelock slightly. His large doe-eyes closed blissfully and he extended his head toward her in a droll fashion that made Lothíriel laugh.

"Difficult to believe he's a war horse and not a lady's riding pony, with the way he's acting," the King muttered. She laughed again and Éomer grinned, realizing how much he liked her laugh. "Shall I have a horse saddled for you, my lady?" A single black eyebrow rose at this question.

"If it is alright with you, my lord, I will put the equipment on my own horse."

"Of course," he replied. She turned away and he heard her walking down the aisle to where her horse, Dergh, waited. Within a few moments, husband and wife were leading their horses into the sunlight. Éomer recalled her riding into Edoras on the large bay gelding, which impressed him greatly. Surely she must be a skilled rider to handle such a big horse with that kind of flighty nature. They mounted and Dergh reared back on his hind legs slightly as the Queen sat astride in the saddle. She blushed slightly as those around her stopped to look.

"He's young still," she explained to Éomer. "He hasn't been trained properly and has a tendency to be a bit capricious."

"So it would seem," the King answered with a chuckle. Together, they trotted through the main street of Edoras and past the open gate into the open land of Rohan.

-o-

"Tell me, my lady, of Dol Amroth. What is it like?"

"It is beautiful," she answered. She smiled at his reaction, his lips curling into a bemused smile as they trotted through the sweeping golden grass. "Well, I think so. And I have a certain bias."

"Understandably so," he agreed, encouraging her to continue with another smile.

"It faces west, onto the Bay of Belfalas. In the evenings, it is lovely to watch the sun set over the water," she closed her eyes momentarily, drifting back to those summer days. "My brothers and I loved to ride our horses across the beach, through the surf and waves. As a child, I would take a satchel full of books from my father's library and tie them to my saddle, right here," she reached back and indicated to a leather tie on the tack. "I would take them to the beach and read for hours on end. One time, I lost such track of time that I was nearly underwater when high tide came in."

The King laughed, most likely imagining a young Lothíriel, her dress soaked as she struggled to keep the pages from getting wet. That was the way of it. And how angry was Lady Ivriel when the girl returned, dripping with seawater in her attempts to her beloved books! She received a firm scolding for that incident. But Lothíriel knew Ivriel didn't mind as much as she dramatized.

"I would very much like to see it," Éomer said quietly. Lothíriel glanced at him and nodded.

"It is a very agreeable place."

"What do you think of Rohan, my lady?"

"It is vast." She hesitated, trying to find the appropriate words. She did not want to upset or insult him. "The scenery is pleasant to look upon and the people are warm, to be sure. I wish I had spent more time learning Rohirric."

"You speak it very well, my lady."

"Thank you," she replied with a faint blush. "But I fear it takes poor Falas a few tries before I can understand him fully,"

"That old codger," the King scoffed with a snort. "His own people, myself included, have a terrible time attempting to comprehend his speech."

Lothíriel laughed, enjoying the feeling of a genuine amusement. She slowed the petulant horse to a walk as her husband followed suit. She looked at him, taking note of his relaxed demeanor. He seemed increasingly tense these past weeks, his shoulders slouching slightly and his expression constantly a frown. It always helped her brothers when they were stuck in a mood to go riding. There was something about the company of horses that lessened anxiety, at least for the time being.

Éomer's visage was calm, his eyes on the horizon. She liked seeing him riding without his stiff armor. He looked so very natural atop Firefoot, one hand holding the reins loosely, the other resting on his thigh. He was certainly impressive to look at, a true lord of horses. He glanced at her, and chuckled nervously.

"Is there something in my hair? A leaf or twig perhaps?"

"Pardon?" she blinked, confused as he laughed.

"You were staring at me. I figured there was something humiliating about my appearance."

"Not at all," she answered, feeling her cheeks burn. He smiled and guided his horse around a rabbit hole.

"My lady?" Lothíriel turned to him, his voice slightly more somber. She nodded, indicating him to continue with his question. "Was this your choice?"

"You do not recall me asking for your company on this ride?" she asked with a small smile. He smiled as well but shook his head.

"I mean the marriage. Was this your choice? Was there another man?"

"My father and King Elessar conceived of the idea, but it was ultimately my decision."

"Why, if you don't mind me asking."

"No, of course not. I suppose I felt a responsibility to my people. This union would create long lasting peace between our lands after many years of shadow. I believe what people need most right now is material confirmation of amity, especially between Rohan and Gondor. Our marriage is a starting point. My father proposed the concept he and King Elessar created, but wasn't going to force me into it."

"I am glad you choose this," Éomer murmured.

"Are you?"

"Yes, my lady. I can think of no fairer woman I could have married. And, from what your father says, you are also politically confident. I had hoped for a wife with whom I could leave the care of Edoras."

"Leave indefinitely?"

"No," he paused, visibly surprised. "But I wanted a Queen who could take command of my land if I were absent."

"And I am this woman?"

"I think so."

"I hope not to let you down then," Lothíriel replied quietly, allowing the reins to slide through her fingers so Dergh could stretch his neck.

"I don't think you will," he assured her. "But do not be afraid of saying what is on your mind. Prince Imrahil also mentioned your sharp tongue." The young woman felt her cheeks burn even more with that statement.

"Only when I have cause to use it, my lord."

"You've had no cause yet?"

"My father instructed me not to offend or otherwise irritate you or the members of your household with my occasionally facetious manner."

"It is welcomed," he said with a deep laugh.

"Then fear not, Éomer King," she replied with a smile. "You'll taste the sting of my 'sharp tongue' soon enough."

"I look forward to it, Lothíriel Queen."


	6. Painful Revelations

In the days to come, Lothíriel and Éomer spent their time together in a congenial, enjoyable manner. The young King was pleased to sleep beside his lovely wife and wake up beside her. They continued eating lunch together, though her pregnancy illness kept her from eating as much as he would've liked. She was his solace through the difficulties that loomed above him.

The Dunlenders were Éomer's most grievous concern, but they remained at large. It frustrated him to no end that his éored was unable to catch the miscreants and hold them accountable for their mischief. And the ever-increasing letters from his brother-in-law and sister illuminated the problem of orcs. If they were spreading away from Mordor, they would not hesitate to use the White Mountains. With the Dead Army disbanded and the Paths of the Dead abandoned, Éomer dared not guess what might now lurk in the shadowy orifices of the mountains.

The King of Gondor also sent his regards with warnings about bands of orcs roaming the lands. He felt convinced the creatures would not travel across the open lands of Rohan, but the evil that leaked from Mordor after the Ring's destruction could not be completely accounted for. Éomer counted himself lucky to not have to contend with the foulness of Mordor so close to home, as well as a damaged city.

When he was not out with his riders or in a council meeting, he was helping his wife with her venture. The vacant building his uncle had erected was not in terrible shape. Éomer and several of his men dedicated an afternoon to fix the roof and secure doors. It was really more like a barn, with a long floor and loft that stretched the length of the structure.

After the men patched the wood and made the building secure, Lothíriel enlisted the help of three young girls from Edoras, along with Falas. Together, the five of them put up dividers. Lothíriel called on her memory of the Houses of Healing and how they were designed. While this edifice was not as large or as accommodating as its predecessor in Gondor, it would function. They erected partitions, albeit flimsy, to divide the stores, kitchen and sick rooms. They furnished the place with cots and bedding from Meduseld's cellar. The whole interior arrangements took all of a day to set up.

Éomer was increasingly impressed with wife's skill and ability. Not only was she a scholar, as her father so proudly mentioned, but she was also an apt leader. She spent the majority of her days with the three girls, teaching them the medicinal properties of herbs, roots and plants. She and Falas had the girls schooled in wound treatment and sanitization. Éomer could see the woman Lothíriel had been in Gondor finally show herself here and it pleased him greatly.

The King of the Golden Hall sat beside his wife in bed one evening as she read over the herbal inventory, making marks every now and again. He was reading a book she'd given him from the Dol Amroth library. While he wasn't entirely fond of reading, he found the book highly enjoyable and was glad she'd brought it with her. Every now and again, he would steal a look at his beautiful wife. Her hair hung loose down her back in silky waves. The white night-dress was illuminated in the firelight, as were her grey eyes when they caught him staring.

"Are you well, my lord?" she asked, putting the parchment down. He kicked himself mentally for gawking at her like a youth and smiled.

"I'm fine, my lady. But it is late. Why don't we retire?" He put the book down as she nodded. Standing, she proceeded to put the book on the study desk. He glanced up when he heard her wince. Lothíriel stood with her hand on the desk, the other touching her abdomen lightly.

"Are you alright?" he asked, alarmed.

"Yes, of course," she answered lightly, gesturing for him to remain in bed, as he already had his feet on the ground. He eyed her and she smiled, returning to the bed. "It was nothing. A cramp."

He didn't answer as she blew the candle out. Lying in the darkness, Éomer listened to his wife as she settled into sleep, her back to him. Allowing himself to be convinced with her answer, he turned on his side and welcomed sleep.

His dreams were bloody. The murder on the Pelennor Fields haunted his psyche, causing him to toss and turn. His allies and enemies alike stood before him, bleeding and broken. Their deaths replayed over in his mind, the shrieks of battle overwhelming him. He longed to wake and find they were but dreams, mere memories and nothing more. But the screams did not die in his ears. They were loud and sorrowful, painful to listen to.

Éomer woke with a start, willing the noise in his head to cease. But it did not. He realized the screams were coming from his room. He looked beside him and Lothíriel was gone. Stumbling out of bed, his eyesight marred from sleep, he tried to follow the sounds of the screams, tripping over his cloak. He landed on his side as his vision created images of his wife on her knees. The screams were hers. Éomer tried to move to her, but the cloak had tangled itself about his feet and he watched in the dim light as his wife cried out painfully.

"Lothíriel," he called to her. The door slammed open as two guards and a maid rushed in, the maid holding a candle. The guards assisted Éomer to his feet as he watched the maid try to discern the cause of Lothíriel's pain. As the light of the candle passed over her dress, he saw blood covering the front, and trailing down her calves. Her moans continued as the maid called for more help. Several other women, Lady Berewen and Lady Ivriel among them, came in with horrified looks painted on their tired faces. In the mess, Éomer was half escorted half pushed out of the chamber. When he tried to reenter, the door was shut in his face.

-o-

She had never experienced such pain. Such absolute pain it threatened to destroy her vision and shorten her breath. Her consciousness was arguable as she felt people touch her and strip her of the nightdress.

The awful ripping sensation in her lower body kept her from thinking rationally. When she was a child and she was injured, her brothers told her to think of something she loved and hold onto that thought and not let it go until the pain was gone. Memories of Dol Amroth danced in front of her eyes as she concentrated on the ocean. She saw her first pony galloping across the sand, her wild mane catching the sea breeze. The mare had been a present from her father and she'd cherished the little thing until the day its leg broke from a fall.

Lothíriel imagined her pony trotting down the hallway in the summer morning. How angry her father had been to see a horse in halls of Dol Amroth with none but the Princess astride!

'This is not Rohan,' he cried upon seeing her. 'We do not simply ride our beasts of burden about the place. Have you gone mad, child?' But the smile overtook his face as his eyes twinkled merrily. Certainly he had allowed her to finish her ride, as long as she promised not to do it again. It upset the nobles and, Valar forbid their feathers get ruffled.

"Ada," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. She couldn't comprehend the pain she felt or why she felt it. She didn't chance to open her eyes again, for fear of what she would see. She allowed her mind to drift to other things: her brothers playing with wooden swords in the courtyard, Prince Imrahil lifting his daughter above his head so she could see farther than he into the horizon, her feisty stallion in the stables below, Éomer. His dreamlike presence behind her closed eyes was comforting. His deep eyes smiled to her as his lips followed suit, a boyish charm about his countenance. He was her final vision before the darkness took its claim.

-o-

Éomer's heart was beating erratically as he stood in the dark vestibule. Gamling stood to the side, watching his King worriedly. But he didn't want the young monarch any more concerned than he was already,

"Perhaps she is having a painful cycle," he offered. Elfhelm shot him a glare, as the King shook his head.

"I do not think it is so," he answered dejectedly. Gamling was about to suggest a mug of ale when the door to the chamber opened. Éomer almost knocked Elfhelm over as he strode toward the maid, who'd shut the door curtly behind her.

"What is it? What's wrong with my lady? Is she well? Will she live?" Gamling was certain he'd never seen Éomer so nervous. The maid's tired eyes blinked through the barrage of questions and she held a hand up.

"My lord King," she started and pulled in a deep breath. "My lady is alright. But she has suffered a miscarriage."

Éomer turned from the girl, staring blindly at the wall. Behind him, Gamling shifted uncomfortably and Elfhelm placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder.

"Did you know she was pregnant?" he asked quietly. Éomer nodded mutely as the maid glanced between the two men.

"May I see her?" the King asked after a moment. He didn't bother to meet the girl's eyes, but kept them firmly placed on the stone.

"Not at the moment, my lord," she murmured, glancing warily at his clenched fists.

"Thank you," Elfhelm said kindly to her. She ducked her head and darted away. Gamling dismissed the guards as the women filed from the room silently, carrying soiled bedclothes and linens. Lady Berewyn and Lady Ivriel were the last ones to leave. Lady Berewyn stood beside the King, keeping her eyes averted from his.

"She will live, my lord." Her voice was raw from giving orders. Her hands were bloody and her brow was filmy with sweat. "She is young and strong. I would have her moved from you bed but that she is too weak to move. I am sorry to have to displace you tonight."

"Can I see her?" Éomer asked through clenched teeth. Lady Berewyn's brow furrowed in what Gamling thought might be disapproval.

"She is asleep right now, my lord." When Éomer said nothing, she curtsied and left. Elfhelm glanced at the closed door and back to his friend, who hadn't moved an inch since the news had been given.

"Come, my lord," he said gently. "You may take my bed. I'll sleep in the cot." Éomer allowed himself to be led from his chambers, only to cast a final look at the room that held his Queen from him.


	7. A Dark Awakening

Chapter 7: A Dark Awakening

She saw beautiful scenes behind closed eyes. Memories and premonitions of flowering fields and gently sloping hills in the green summer. She lay in the sea grass watching the sky above, as blue as the ocean at dawn. She listened to the waves as they crashed just beyond her line of vision. Turning to her side, she smiled as she watched a child running across the sand, his little legs carrying him with great speed. His hair was dark, though the fiery tones caught the sun majestically. He splashed in the water, delighted at the feel. Lothíriel's smiled widened as the boy giggled, looking at her with deep brown eyes.

He turned away from her and ran across the shoreline. Sitting up, she dusted the sand from her clothes, watching the child. He ran toward another figure that swept him up into strong arms. The child squealed gleefully as the man laughed. His hair was dark blond and his eyes glowed with happiness. He caught her gaze and grinned. She felt completely at peace here, watching them with a smile on her face.

Waking with a start, Lothíriel sucked in a deep breath. She was in a dark and dank place. She lay on a mattress, not sand and the sounds of a fire burning replaced the memory of the ocean. It came back to her slowly, waking up beside her husband with stabbing pains in her abdomen. Afraid to wake him, she'd crept from the bed when a painful spasm took hold of her. She recalled various moments of semi-conscious vision in which she saw the King being led from her room, Lady Berewyn supporting her with gentle but firm arms.

She couldn't understand her pain. Perhaps it had been a pregnancy pain, or she'd eaten something foul. Turning to the side, Lothíriel groaned softly. The chamber was dark, save for the low embers in the fireplace. Only then did she notice a shadowed form sitting beside the bed, slumped in a chair – either asleep or dead. Figuring it was a maid or guard, Lothíriel reached her arm to wake the person. Upon touching his knee, several things occurred all at once. A hand grabbed her wrist as the man jumped from his seat. Lothíriel cringed beneath the figure's shadow, confused and shamefully scared. Where were her attendants? Where was her husband?

The man released her wrist immediately, dropping to his knees beside the bed. His face finally withdrew from the shadows and Lothíriel found herself staring at the King.

"My lady," he rasped, his voice a distressed whisper. She hadn't realized it, but she'd tensed from the moment he'd touched her and was leaning as far away from him as she could manage. She could see the hurt and self-loathing in his eyes as he looked at her with great concern. "I've hurt you."

"No," she answered quickly, furious at herself for acting like a child. He averted his gaze, obviously doubting her words. Lothíriel paced her hand, which was now level with his shoulder, on his upper arm gently. "You haven't hurt me."

He looked at her with dark brown eyes, his expression somber and unreadable. Lothíriel forced a smile, but winced at the effort it took. His eyes narrowed with worry, but she squeezed his arm gently, willing him to relax.

"I must have suffered a heat spell," she said quietly, hoping to dispel his concern. "I apologize for what happened."

He looked at her, his eyes glazed with an emotion she couldn't discern. Was it fear? Or dread? He took her hand in his, rubbing her knuckles softly as he stared at the floor beneath his knees. Her confusion mounted as he kept his silence. There was something he knew that she did not. Why was he sitting beside her in the dark? Where were their servants?

"My lord?" she asked tentatively. He sighed and glanced at her.

"My lady," he started. She encouraged him to continue by covering his hand with her own. "Falas and Lady Berewyn say you have suffered a miscarriage."

He looked up at her, judging her reaction. His words felt like arrows hitting heavily against her. She stared at him, her lips parted, pupils dilated. Certainly this was some joke. Eowyn had said her brother was notorious for his dry wit. But the expression on his face conveyed no humor.

"I have lost the child?" she asked stupidly. Éomer looked away, obviously displeased. Lothíriel felt her heart sink as the weight of this fact came crashing upon her. What good was a Queen if she could not produce an heir? The young man looked as though he were going to continue when the door creaked open. Ivriel slipped in side, and gasped in surprise when she saw the King kneeling beside her lady. Flustered, she dropped the tray she'd been holding, scrambling to pick the items up. Éomer stood stiffly at the interruption as Ivriel begged his forgiveness. Lothíriel sat up, intending to help the woman, but a dull ache in her middle arrested her movements. Both Éomer and Ivriel moved towards her, each trying to keep the Queen from moving. Ivriel retreated as Éomer lay his hand on Lothíriel's shoulder.

"My lady," he whispered tightly.

"My apologies," the lady-in-waiting squeaked. The King turned to her and bent down to collect the items which had fallen. "I did not expect to see you here. I thought you were with my lord Elfhelm. If I'd known -"

"Lady Ivriel, it is alright," the man assured, handing her the tray. His voice, Lothíriel thought, held a tautness to it, devoid of warmth. Before she could stop him, he bowed awkwardly and left.


	8. Name Calling

**A/N: Sorry for the short chapter 7. I was pressed for time, but because I received such lovely and endearing comments, I wanted to keep folks satisfied, so this chapter will be a tad bit longer. That in mind, thanks again to everyone who took the time and care to review. It means so much to me (as it does to all writers). I promise to update as much as possible! S**

Chapter 8: Name Calling

Of all the stupid things he'd done… Éomer paced the floor of the Golden Hall as the sun illuminated the large room. It was almost midday and the King had been completely unable to concentrate on his council meeting. They decided to adjourn earlier since the issues weren't being addressed with a complete council. Elfhelm took Éomer's place in the daily ride. He and his men had just left, allowing Éomer some time to himself.

Many of his subjects assumed he had been restless due to the encroaching threat of the Dunlendings.. Truthfully, he was concerned about the increasing aggressiveness of their mischief, but his mind and energy was focused on Lothíriel. He had hurt her, more than physically. He rarely considered himself a cold man, but her touch that roused him from sleep brought a side of him into the light. After years of sleeping outdoors in the service of Théoden King, Éomer had grown accustomed to waking at mere touch of another being's hand.

But his reaction had scared the both of them. How could he have perceived her touch has hostile? He was livid with himself, recalling her bewildered and wary expression. And then to have to give her the tragic news… it was almost too much for him. But he realized, as he stood in a ray of blinding light, that he longed to see her again. He needed to see her and assure himself that she was alive and would not vanish before his eyes.

Walking to his chambers, he thought back on the previous night.

Unable to sleep he left Elfhelm's room, wandering about the dark citadel with fleeting memories on his mind. He'd watched those he loved slip away from him like sand through fingers. His parents, cousin, and uncle, not to mention numerous companions. Even his dear Eowyn had left him. But he was happy for her. The love she found in Faramir was well deserved and he wanted only the best for her. He remembered dreaming of marrying a lovely woman and having a brood of children in Rohan. Nothing of Rings, hobbits, war, or kinghood. In his dreams, Theoden lived a long reign and his son followed him to the throne. In his dream, Eowyn wed a local noble and lived in the same palace as her brother. And Éomer would still be a Rider of the Third Mark. Not king of the entire land.

Agitated by unwanted memories and dreams, Éomer walked quietly down the dark hallway toward his room. He listened first to hear if any of those bellicose women who'd shooed him away earlier dwelt within. Satisfied with the silence, Éomer entered the room. In the bed lay his wife, her skin seeming paler than usual in the firelight. He closed the door and stoked the fire a bit. Figuring it would be inappropriate and uncomfortable for Lothíriel if he climbed into bed beside her, Éomer placed the chair from his desk beside the bed. Sitting down, he watched his wife sleep. Her lips were drained of their color and her eyelids were a faint blue. The covers lay over her chest, which rose and fell steadily.

He was relieved she'd survived. He had heard stories of women who died of a miscarriage. He prayed they were only tales, especially when the news was given to him. It would be awful for the psyche of Rohan if its Queen died so soon and so young. Éomer realized it would be awful for his psyche. Lothíriel was his foundation. In her he found his strength. And while she probably never imagined it, she'd set a course to heal him of his battle scars.

And there he had ruined her hard work by grabbing her wrist and scaring the very wits from her. He remembered the feel of her bone beneath his fingers, his skin pressing into her flesh with blind aggression. He shuddered at the thought.

He knocked on the door to his chambers. A voice bid him enter, which he did promptly. Inside, Lothíriel sat on a bench beside the window as Lady Berewyn plaited the Queen's hair. Lothíriel looked physically better. Her skin had returned to its healthy whiteness and her eyes shone dimly beneath long lashes. Lady Berewyn also looked substantially improved since the last few nights. The attendant dropped into a curtsy (but not before she secured her lady's hair) and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Lothíriel turned to look at him, her face soft in the sunlight that filtered through the crocheted window drapes. She wore a dress of dark blue that hung nicely from her slim shoulders. Despite being slender, she was not without curves, which Éomer noted the moment he'd seen her on their wedding day. Her hips curved gently and her breasts were generous. She had smooth skin that neither clung for life on her bones nor bunched beneath her in rolls. She was well proportioned for her height and he recalled the strength of her legs against him when they had consummated their union.

"My lord?" she queried, an eyebrow raised slightly. Her voice was quiet, and he could hear how she strained to not rasp.

"I apologize," he mumbled, coming further into the room. She made to stand but he gestured for her to remain sitting. Looking away, Lothíriel folded her hands on her lap placidly.

"What is it you would have me do, my lord?"

"Pardon?"

"With regards to the lost pregnancy," she stated, her tone controlled and detached. It was his turn to raise eyebrows. There was something brewing behind those seemingly serene grey eyes and he was positive he would find out soon.

"My lady – "

"My name is Lothíriel," she snapped, catching him in a strict glare. She stood up angrily. "Lothíriel! I was born with a name. So if you've come to express your displeasure then at least do me the honour of saying my name!"

Éomer was stunned into silence as he stared at her. If she'd been a man, he would have surely yelled back at her, but his surprise overruled his ire. The Queen's expression melted from furious to horrified. It was clear she'd been speaking in the passion of the moment, careless of the words she let slip. She sank back to her seat with a thud, her eyes glassy.

"I apologize, my lord," she whispered.

"Why would I be displeased?" he asked softly, his confusion getting the best of his shock. She glanced up at him but quickly averted her gaze to the window.

"The ladies said… they said you were furious that I could not keep the child alive," she murmured, her voice stiff and emotionless. Éomer stood dazed as she continued. "They said you would send me away as soon as I was well." Lothíriel glances at him again as he tried desperately to control his annoyance for her sake. The gossiping nature of some women was beyond reason.

"They are wrong," he muttered firmly. "I have never been cross with you. Especially not in an evil hour such as this. I am terribly sorry I could do nothing to help. As it is, I seem to have done more harm than good."

She locked her eyes on his and he saw the hurt in her eyes dissolve, replaced with gentle compassion. For him. He was disgusted with himself at that moment. She gulped in a breath of air and he wondered if she would cry. But she held herself together and he marveled at her strength. Standing stiffly, the Queen made to walk toward the door, but her breath hitched in her throat and her legs buckled.

Éomer was there in two strides, catching her before she collapsed to the floor. Her arms clung tightly to him as her body convulsed in sobs. Her head was buried in his shoulder as he lowered them both to the ground. He wrapped his arms about her shaking form, pulling her closer to him as she cried. Her breaths were heavy with pain as she wound her fingers through his hair and held on to him. He held her fiercely, as if to protect her from everything beyond his arms. Her sobs subsided to deeper breaths as she struggled to calm herself. Éomer's hands soothed her gently, rubbing her back and arms.

She laid against him, turned away from the sunlight, her hands on his shoulders and neck. He planted his lips against her silky hair and kissed, tasting the herbs she used in the healing house. She turned her head slightly so it rested against his chest. He could feel the wetness of her tears soak his shirt, but he didn't mind. He drew one leg up slightly so she could lean her back against it as he held her. He whispered softly to her in Rohirric, words his mother used to comfort him with. Her breathing became normal and he felt her heartbeat against him still from its quick pace.

After a moment, she pulled back slightly to look at him, making ready to apologize. Éomer caught her face in her hands and ran his fingers across her tear-marred cheeks. Her eyes were wide, grey irises watching him with appreciation and relief. He felt the moisture of her tears on his fingertips and smiled.

"There is no need to ask for forgiveness," he whispered to her. "You have done nothing wrong."

"Aside from sully your shirt," she replied softly. They smiled, the first real smile that made his cheeks warm.

"Yes, aside from that. So do not think I will allow you to apologize." His expression grew serious as he regarded her. "This is not your fault. I am not angry with you and I will not cast you out. We will try again," he assured her, but paused. "That is, if you still wish to. I know I haven't been much of a husband of late."

"You have been a King. And that is a responsibility that accounts for many lives. So it is a fair sacrifice." Her voice was mellifluous in the midday atmosphere. Her grey eyes sparkled from beneath their lashes, watching him with genuine interest. After a moment, his wife untangled herself gently from his arms and stood up, straightening the dress, which had wrinkled itself. Éomer stood as well, seeing that only a tiny patch of his own fabric bore any sign of her tears.

"I'm afraid I have to leave you," he murmured, truly regretting this. "I have been absentminded since you fell ill and must make up for that. But I'll return to dine with you, later this evening."

"I look forward to it," she replied with a smile. Her voice had returned to its velvety resonance as she moved away from him, picking her discarded book from the bench. "Once they deem me ready to leave this room, I think I shall return to the healing house and visit my horse. How has he been?"

"Feisty," Éomer answered with a grin. "None of the lads can ride him around the paddock without suffering bruised backsides." The Queen smiled fondly at the image and nodded.

"Very well. I shall deal with that beast. Now then, you must return to your duties. Do not let them think their Queen from Gondor has bewitched the King and turned him from his royal tasks."

"Indeed," he said, walking to the door. While she said it in jest, they both knew the possibilities of wagging tongues and the precarious pedestal they were momentarily on. Éomer prayed his people would accept and even grow to like their Queen as he had. "I take my leave then. I shall see you soon for supper, Lothíriel."


	9. Closeness

Chapter 9: Closeness

Éomer spent as much time as he could spare with Lothíriel. He felt guilty about what the women had said to her. The last thing he wanted was to drive her away. He also felt ashamed that his concern for her was partially borne from fear – that she would die and leave him alone. He wanted to believe that he truly cared for her life on a sympathetic level. But he knew, deep down, he didn't want her to abandon him because he knew he wouldn't be able to handle it.

And then there was the matter of the lost child. He grieved in private, not wishing his wife or his subjects to see his distress. When she'd told him of the pregnancy, he'd felt joy beyond his expectations. Now he watched that happiness dissolving, withering away with each moment. Éomer feared Lothíriel would not get pregnant again. The old healer, Falas mentioned that women sometimes suffered too terribly to conceive again. He hoped it was not so with Lothíriel.

He sat across the room from her in the evening as she read. Tomorrow she would be allowed to leave the chambers, something he knew she was pleased about. Her eyes were focused on the pages before her as Éomer watched her from his desk. Records lay before him, waiting to be reviewed and noted. Winter would be upon them in less than a week and there was still the problem of the farmers and poorer folk of Rohan. He had been able to move some of his people to Aldburg, at least until the snow melted. But Edoras was already full. He feared the harshness of the season to come with new intensity. As a Rider, he'd only been concerned about himself, his men and his horse. But as King, his priorities were increased tenfold.

"You seem forlorn." his wife's voice woke him from his reverie. He shrugged slightly and glanced back at the papers. "Worried about winter?"

"Yes."

"How many families do you believe need shelter and food?"

"Gamling counted at least twenty-five in the land around Edoras," he answered dejectedly. Lothíriel pondered this for a moment before speaking.

"Could they not sleep in Meduseld?" He looked at her, his silence eliciting a response. "Surely it can hold at least fifty. Cots could be set up in the storerooms where it is warm. Perhaps the women and girls could work in the kitchens and the men could lend a hand in the barn or elsewhere."

"I don't know," he replied. She put the book down and gazed at him.

"Why not? It will be a bit overcrowded, yes. But it should be warm and they will survive at least."

"That is the best option I've heard yet," he said to her. She smiled slightly in the candlelight.

"When I was a child Dol Amroth had to house a good two hundred people from a western village, which was destroyed by the sea in a storm. I remember watching them, spread out on the grand marble floor of the Grey Hall. They were all so brave."

"We would need to bring the people in swiftly," Éomer murmured, more to himself than her. She nodded.

"Yes. I shall alert Falas, as I imagine there will be many more sick folk than usual. I will also notify the staff to prepare bedding and food."

"You plan and analyze as well as any of my council members," her husband said with a grin. "You should have been born a man."

"Were that so, this would be a rather ineffective union."

-o-

Lothíriel woke early beside her husband. She heard his deep breathing beside her and, wanting not to wake him, slipped from the bed. Her heart nearly skipped a beat when her bare feet touched the frozen stones. Hopping quickly to the rug, the Queen pulled her robe from chair she'd left it on last night. Shrugging the warm garment on, she walked to the window quietly. Standing before in the dim light, she gazed at the pale sky as the sun rose slowly. How unlike this place was from her home in Gondor! She missed watching the sun set beneath the ocean. She wished she could take Éomer to see it. Wrapping her arms around herself, she recalled her lost child. The darkness of her memories crept slowly into her pleasant thoughts, making even the sunrise seem fetid somehow.

She felt hands on her upper arms and warmth against her back. Glancing to the side, she caught Éomer in her peripheral vision standing behind her, his eyes on the plains of Rohan. Despite the cold, he was naked save for trousers. His hands on her arms were gentle as he stood but a hair's breadth from her.

"I remember looking out upon this scene as a child," he murmured to her. She followed his gaze across the golden countryside, the low grass rippling in the morning breeze. "Soon this will be covered with snow and unbelievably cold." Lothíriel shuddered at the very thought and she felt a low rumble in Éomer's chest as he chuckled. "Wear many layers and you will be fine."

She turned to face him, his dark eyes staring down at her. She was perhaps two inches shorter than he and decided it would be a comfortable fit if she were to embrace him. She smiled slightly and sighed with a quietness of the moment. Her thoughts since the miscarriage had revolved around how best to leave Edoras with her dignity, for surely he would throw her out as the ladies surmised. But he did not wish her departure. In fact, he had shouldered some of the responsibility._ Lothy, you lucky woman,_ she scolded herself silently._ You have a wonderful, respectful man for your husband! You've done better than most princesses in this agreement._

"What is wrong?" he asked, his eyes narrowing with concern. She realized she'd become fond of the tiny lines that etched themselves at the edges of his eyes when he laughed or worried.

"Nothing," she answered quietly. He stared at her for a moment before looking away.

"May I ask your forgiveness?" he inquired, his voice noticeably more controlled.

"Regarding?"

"My behaviour. I want you to love Rohan as much as I do. I want you to be happy." She almost responded with 'I am happy,' but hesitated. She wasn't and there was no reason to make him believe otherwise.

"It will come in time," she said, repeating the assurance her father had given her before they'd left Dol Amroth. What she would give to see him right now. She'd sent a letter to him and her brothers notifying them of the miscarriage. She knew Éomer had written to his sister about it. But letters were empty vessels unable to carry the weight of her emotions. She longed to sit with her brothers on the sand. Telling them there would be far more cathartic than doing so in some letter.

"Of course," he agreed, though she doubted his confidence. But she was touched by his concern. From his expression he didn't seem pleased with the way that had gone.

She placed her hand on his cheek, feeling his warm skin beneath her chilled fingers. His eyes immediately met hers as she felt her body lean closer to him, wanting to touch him. He met her halfway as he leaned his head down. Her lips met his as she tilted her face to accept a kiss. The movement of his lips against her caused her to rotate her head slightly, giving him better access to her mouth. His hands slid from her arms to her shoulders and then to their separate ways. One wound through her thick hair, grasping it and supporting her head gently. The other hand skimmed a path down her side, resting finally on her hip.

His mouth was heated above hers and his kisses were ardent. He pulled her close to him with the hand on her hip and she moved her fingers from his cheek into his hair. Her other hand held his upper arm as he stepped forward into her. The closeness of their bodies warmed her skin and made her smile inwardly. His fingers held her black hair, letting it flow around his hand and wrist as he ran his other hand from her hip to her lower back. She felt his heart beneath his skin, beating almost as quickly as her own.

She felt his fingers run along the ridge of her spine beneath the material of the nightdress until his hand reached her backside, which he held, pushing her further into his body. His fingers grasped the fabric of her dress, scrunching it into his palm until it began to rise above her calf. All the while, his kiss deepened passionately, her lips parting to allow him more direct access to her mouth, which he took appreciatively. The dress was almost to mid-thigh when a knock on the door jolted them from the moment.

Éomer straightened, breaking the kiss. His fingers untangled themselves from her hair as he let the skirt of the nightdress fall back to the floor. Lothíriel stepped around him and gathered her robe around herself as she walked to the door. Cracking it, she saw a maid with a tray of food. The Queen thanked her and took the tray from her, declining the maid's offer to kindle the fire and tidy the room. Shutting the door with her foot, Lothíriel brought the tray to the bed and lay it down. Éomer had retreated to the wooden wardrobe to fetch a shirt. She watched the muscles in his back pull taunt and relax as he tugged the shirt down. He was extremely handsome in the morning light, she realized, with his hair tussled from sleep. He turned to face her with a serene expression. Only his lips, which were slightly flushed, gave any indication of their previous actions. He offered her a gentle smile before donning the cloak.

Lothíriel turned to her own clothing cabinet and selected a warm dress for the day. It had been Eowyn's, according to Lady Berewyn. It was dark brown, modest and well insulated. She decided, given the cold weather, that her riding boots would be sufficient for the day. She returned to the bedside with the dress in hand. Glancing up she realized she was alone in the room. Éomer must've slipped past her while she'd been admiring the dress. She smiled as she touched her bottom lip, remembering the fervent way he'd claimed her lips and longing for it once more.


	10. Getting Somewhere

Chapter 10: Getting Somewhere

The days went by slowly, but progressively. Lothíriel divided her time between the Healing House and the barn. Only a select few knew of her miscarriage and they sold her bedridden days off as feminine pains. Lothíriel doubted the silence of the women's tongues for any period longer than a month, but they would deal with that when the time came.

She thought about the baby more than she was willing to admit. Her dreams consisted of the child's face, strangely androgynous, but beautiful nonetheless. Sometimes her baby would have blond hair, other times dark hair. She felt undeniable love for him, but the sorrow was often overwhelming. She'd wake with a start, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes, but they never spilled. She couldn't tell if that was a strength or weakness.

Éomer was wonderfully sensitive of her, making sure she was comfortable and safe. While she appreciated his attention, the limit on her freedom was slightly irking. In Dol Amroth Lothíriel could walk the quiet shores of the sea without a horde of attendants. She and her brothers would take long rides into the hills unaccompanied knowing their father didn't mind a bit. But this was not Dol Amroth.

Lothíriel folded a blanket, glancing at the sun as it dipped below the window's view. Éomer and his men were collecting the villagers and bringing them to Edoras. The King and his council had accepted her plan, though there were aspects she hadn't thought of, such as where to keep the toddlers and babies. Lothíriel and Gamling spent several hours the day before planning the layout of the makeshift refuge. The tables and chairs would be placed in a separate halls and the eating space had to accommodate more people than usual. Gamling suggested folk bring their own cook-wear and the like, since it was doubtful Meduseld had enough to cater to so many people.

"My lady?" Lothíriel turned to see a woman with an armful of blankets. "Where shall I put these?"

"Over there, Cellwyn," she answered, indicating to the pile of bedding. The woman nodded and placed the blankets on the precarious mound. Lothíriel, Cellwyn and the other women had been working tirelessly for hours preparing the halls. Lothíriel left the bedding and sat down on one of the remaining benches in the room.

"Come, Cellwyn," Lothíriel said gesturing to the bench space beside her. The flaxen haired woman sat beside her Queen, watching her with a curious expression. "You've all worked so hard. A moment of respite is well earned."

"Thank you, my lady," Cellwyn replied with a smile. She looked to be in her late thirties, though the lines on her face made her appear far older. Lothíriel had been working with her in the Healing House for the past few days. She liked Cellwyn's positive attitude and attention to detail. Lothíriel returned the smile and sighed.

"Hopefully this winter will not be terribly harsh," the younger woman mused, smoothing her dark green skirts with one hand.

"It's hard to say, my lady."

"Indeed." Lothíriel listened to the other women talk as they worked across the room. While this may not have been the best idea, it would keep those vulnerable to the elements safe, at least, for this winter.

"Are you unwell, my lady?" Lothíriel's grey eyes met Cellwyn's brown eyes, clouded with concern. The Queen blinked, surprised by the question. The blonde woman ducked her head, cheeks reddening. "You seem distant."

"Just thinking," Lothíriel assured her. Cellwyn nodded and reached down to pick up a stray blanket. As she extended her arm forward, the sleeve of her dress rose above her wrist, exposing bluish bruises on her skin. Stunned, Lothíriel caught Cellwyn's wrist gently in her hand. "What happened?" she asked, indicating to the abrasions. Cellwyn's blue eyes widened as she followed the Queen's gaze. With a frown, she pulled her appendage from Lothíriel's gasp and shrugged one shoulder.

"A trifle of an accident." She smiled weakly and stood. "I ought to be more careful." Before Lothíriel could inquire further, the woman slipped away, leaving for the kitchens as the deep horn sounded.

Éomer had returned.

Walking outside into the chilly weather, Lothíriel watched from the stone veranda as the Rohirrim came through the gates. There were citizens of Rohan behind them, making a line as they came up the dirt street. Some people walked, others rode in small wagons and others still rode horses. Lothíriel began to worry where they would put the extra livestock as Éomer caught her gaze from the gate of Edoras. He nodded to her, reining Firefoot in to help an elderly man with his horse. Turning from the approaching party, Lothíriel directed the servants to prepare food and warm drinks. Several minutes later, the doors opened to the Golden Hall. Éomer and his company of men entered, escorting the group of villagers.

"Hail, Éomer King," Lothíriel greeted her husband.

"Hail Lothíriel Queen," he answered. Those behind him bowed or curtsied in her presence. He offered her a quick smile as she turned to help the women with their satchels. Many had brought the remaining food in their homes, along with their other earthly possessions. She allowed the ladies of Edoras to guide their sisters to the room where they could freshen up before supper. Lothíriel came to stand beside her husband as he stared the men of the group.

"Bedding and the like are provided," she said, nodding to the pile at the end of the Hall. "I understand this is a bit unpleasant, but I assure you will be warm and fed here."

"Thank you, my lady Queen," one of the older men said, bowing deeply. He had black eyes that held a lifetime's worth of knowledge and his smile was genuine. Though his hair and beard were grey, he was robust and in shape with the physique of a soldier.

"This is Aldon," Éomer said to his wife. "He and my uncle knew each other as lads when Aldon lived in Edoras."

"Well met," she addressed the hardy looking man, who bowed once more. She inclined her head gently with respect before stepping to the side and speaking to the others. "Now please, allow the servants to bring you all warmed cider. Supper shall be served forthwith."

So it was, crowded as they were, that the first night of their long stay began. Éomer and Lothíriel ate with the people, listening to stories and enjoying the evening. Though there was still much to be done, Lothíriel decided that would be tomorrow's work. They would have to distribute jobs to the newcomers and help them get settled. But not today.

That evening, in their room, Lothíriel sat before the window as she unbound her hair. Watching the moon hang lazily in the sky, she wondered what her father would think of her in these past weeks. She wondered if her brothers missed her as much as she did them. It was inconsolable, the desire to go home. But she would endure, if not for herself then for Éomer.

"My sister used to do that." Lothíriel turned to see Éomer sitting at his desk, his eyes on her. She raised an eyebrow in question and he smiled. "She used to sit gazing into nothingness. You could pass your hand before her face and she'd barely flinch."

"You miss her," Lothíriel observed quietly. Éomer looked down at the papers before him, a sigh passing between his lips.

"Just as much as you miss your brothers." He glanced up at her and smiled, but it was glazed with sadness. "Yes, I do miss her. But I take comfort that she is happy."

"That is a good comfort," Lothíriel agreed. They sat in a moment of comfortable silence before she looked at him. "How does Rohan deal with abusive husbands?" Éomer's eyes met hers as she saw him sit up a little straighter.

"Why the question?"

"I believe one of the women in the Healing House, Cellwyn, has been hurt by her husband."

"But you aren't certain."

"No," she admitted. "But the bruises on her arm look much too similar to hand prints for me to simply disregard them."

"I see," Éomer nodded, brow furrowing. "Well I will not have an abusive man in my eored. But until you are certain these bruises are his doing, I hesitate to confront him. A husband would take great offense if he was accused of something so foul."

"I understand." Lothíriel stood, her hair unbraided and falling down her back in soft waves. She felt Éomer's eyes on her as she walked to the bed. Getting in, Lothíriel pulled the covers to her hips, shivering despite the fire. Éomer frowned and abandoned his work.

"You are still cold?" he inquired, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. She noticed he wore a loose shirt untied in the front and riding breeches. She wondered how he could possibly stay warm, as she was quite possibly frozen.

"I suppose I am not used to such dreadful cold," she answered hesitantly. She didn't wish him to worry over her wellbeing, especially with the dilemmas he had to manage. He took her cold hand in his warm ones and rubbed gently.

"I'm sorry it is so." His voice was quiet and pleasing to her ears as he looked at her hand. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Your ministrations are as good as any," she replied with a smile.

He was close enough to her body that she could lean forward but a few inches and touch his chin with her lips. She slipped her hand from his and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He looked at her and she caught a flame of passion in his dark eyes. Before she could say anything, his lips claimed hers and his hand was on her cheek. She felt the roughness of his flesh and reveled in the difference of texture as she tilted her head slightly. Accepting the heat of his mouth, she brushed her fingertips across his jaw, the short coarseness of his beard pleasuring her skin. Her other hand slid beneath the shirt, pulling his shoulders toward her until his torso was practically laying on her. He pulled away slowly, looking at her as she sat propped up by the pillow, his weight against her.

"This wasn't part of my ministrations," he confessed wryly. Lothíriel smiled and pulled him closer.

"No. It's part of mine."

**A/N: Oh the tension/romance/cuteness! Sorry for the delay, everyone.**


	11. Intimacy

Chapter 11: Intimacy

Éomer met his wife's lips again, intrigued and aroused by the chill of her skin. His hand wove through her hair, reveling in its touch. It wasn't silky smooth, but thick and velvety. Her skin smelled of herbs and he'd grown rather fond of it as her nose brushed his. He pulled her up as he sat up, holding her to him as he continued the kiss. Everything about this woman was intoxicating and he found himself unable to select a better adjective to describe her.

Adjectives aside, he ran his hand up her arm and across the back of her neck were the ties of her dress were located. Tugging gently at the loosely tied strings, he felt the pressure of the dress slack across her shoulders. He felt her hands on his arm and face and he enjoyed her touch thoroughly. He shifted his position, never breaking the kiss, pulling both legs onto the bed, straddling her legs and rising above her on his knees, his neck craned down. He pulled away for a moment to gaze onto her beautiful face. Lothíriel's eyes were closed, her breath soft against his skin. She opened those grey eyes and brushed her fingers across his cheekbone. Knowing he could postpone his desire no longer, he descended upon her lips swiftly and fiercely. She met his intensity with her own, pulling him down to her.

Her taste made him weak as he moved closer, felling the swell of her breasts against his rib cage. Their clothing needed to be removed, he realized. Running his hands across her shoulders, he slid the material of her dress down her arms until it pooled at her waist. His lips moved from hers to feel their way across her jaw and down her neck. Her hands drew the hem of the shirt up his stomach and chest. He removed his lips from her to throw the garment off his body, careless of where it landed. All he cared about was returning his lips to Lothíriel's skin, which he did promptly. Her hands ran across his back as he leaned forward. He felt her fingers trace the scars on his flesh and he took pleasure in the softness of her touch. His lips moved lower, flowering across her collarbone as her head dropped back, black hair falling down her back, pooling in his hands. He reached her perfect breasts, but before he could fully enjoy them, he would have to lay her down.

Rising back to her lips, he kissed her again, holding her head as he pushed her to the mattress gently. She was like silk beneath him, her hair fanning against the pillow. Eager to the resume his attention to her skin, Éomer used his lips to retrace his path down her neck. When he reached her breasts, her back arched, bringing them to his mouth. She moaned and he felt it resonate in her chest as he continued. her hands wound through his hair and against the back of his neck as he felt her softness beneath him.

After so many long years of suffering the elements and hardship, Éomer's body had almost forgotten the smoothness it had once owned as a child. Even feather beds denied him that small appreciation, but Lothíriel's skin was a remedy. He quieted her moans with his mouth, longing to taste her once again. His hand ran from her shoulder across the peak of one breast, down her smooth stomach to where the dress still lay gathered at her hips. She smiled against his lips as he tried to remove it and she quickly wiggled herself free of it. Éomer deepened the kiss appreciatively as his hand continued its journey.

He felt the wonderfully soft skin of her hips, curving beneath his hand as she drew one leg up. His memory of her strong thighs was rekindled as he felt the muscles beneath his fingers. He loved the paradox of her strength and tenderness, completely in harmony. Sliding his hand down her inner thigh, he met her heated center. He felt her eyelashes flutter against his cheek as he kissed her when his fingers swept over her softness, damp with pleasure. He felt his own desire straining, beating in his blood as he realized his pants were still on. Cursing to himself, Éomer tried to remedy the situation without leaving her gorgeous lips. But alas, she was the smarter being. She caught his face in her hands and broke the kiss.

He pulled away slightly, trying to mask his disappointment. She smiled warmly and pushed him up until he sat above her. Fumbling to get out of the wretched britches, he looked down at his patient, beautiful wife. Her hair lay on the pillow like a dark halo and her lips were flushed. Her breasts were perfectly formed, rising and falling as she breathed and he couldn't stop admiring her. He squirmed and fidgeted ungracefully until the pants had been removed. She grinned at his success and pulled him down to her again.

They wasted no time as he felt her legs flank his lower body. He eagerly resumed kissing her as he felt her warmth against him. He paused, remembering the last time they'd done such things. She must have noticed his hesitation because she brushed her lips against his cheek to whisper against his ear.

"I am yours," she said, the huskiness of her voice sending shivers down his spine. She gave him an encouraging nuzzle as he pushed into her. Just as before, he found himself flawlessly matched for her and her warmth encased him like a scabbard to a sword.

"Lothíriel," he murmured against her as his hips began to move, almost unbidden. She molded to his body and a rhythm was established. He kissed her neck and felt her skin against his. One smooth leg wrapped around his slightly, holding him as her hands ran across his back and neck. Her taste was indescribable as he felt her breasts, hands, lips, hair touch him. Every inch of his skin was sensitive to Lothíriel and he took pride in the way she felt.

His passion and desire built until he was certain they'd both catch fire. That was alright. As long as she was warm. His rhythm increased as her back arched, closing the gap between their bodies as he felt his release. Her muscles rippled against him as he gave himself to her. Exhausted, he lay above her as she breathed. He hadn't realized the how hot his skin had become, but he didn't care.

Worried he was crushing her, he pulled her against him and rolled over, bringing her with him. she laughed quietly and settled against him, her head on his chest. He felt apprehensive about what to do next. Should they get dressed and go to sleep? He was unsure, but took a cue from her as she embraced him. He wrapped one arm around her waist, the other brushing black curls from her face. Her eyes were closed as he held her to him and he leaned to the side, extinguishing the candle on her side of the bed. The other candle on his desk would just have to wait or die on its own. Settling against the pillows, Éomer pulled the covers above his waist and her lower back. He kissed the top of her head and turned to pull her close.

"Good night, Lothíriel."

**A/N: Alright, another short chapter from one person's POV. Sorry! I'm going nuts with finals and I've never written this kind of scene before, if you catch my drift. ;) Thanks for all of the support!**


	12. Unease

Chapter 12: Unease

Lothíriel woke feeling warmer than usual. Blinking against the morning light, she breathed deeply. The memory of the night before flooded her memory like river breaking through a dam. She smiled to herself contentedly and sighed. Éomer's arm was draped across her waist, his hand resting on her hip. She felt his chest expand against her back as he breathed peacefully. Turning slightly in the bed, she watched him sleep beside her. After all those nights with minimal contact, it was peculiar to finally feel her husband's body touching hers. But she certainly welcomed it, for his touch had pleased her greatly.

He opened his eyes slowly to look at her, his expression conveying his gratification. She felt his legs untangle from hers gently as he pulled her against his chest. It almost shocked her to see him so content. Such a hard life this man had led and here he was finding pleasure in her arms. But she took comfort in the thought that he was receiving at least a little of the happiness he deserved. He smiled slightly at him and she sensed his awkwardness.

She herself wasn't entirely sure what the previous evening had meant to either of them. Yes, it was lovely and felt incredible. But did it mean they were in love? Were they simply entertaining the desires of the flesh? Admittedly, Lothíriel had taken great pleasure in her husband, but she was uncertain as to where to go from there. She couldn't honestly say she loved him. Love was something King Elessar and his wife had. Love belonged to Lothíriel's cousin Faramir and his Eowyn. Love touched her parents and her brothers. But Éomer was not Lothíriel's lover. He was her husband and the great difference made her doubt what had occurred between them.

She wondered if Éomer's had a lover. She wondered if he'd forsaken her love to commit himself entirely to his country. As much as Lothíriel wanted to believe Éomer loved her, she couldn't help but think of her place in the kingdom. The ability to produce an heir was paramount. Lothíriel recognized with increasing solemnity the task and burden she'd been appointed with. She'd failed once already. She could not shame her family and Éomer again.

"What's wrong?" his soft voice banished her dark thoughts. She looked at him, his brown eyes narrowed with concern. His fingers brushed her lips and cheek as he waited her answer.

"Your hip is crushing me," she answered with a small smile. A look of embarrassment and surprise crossed his face as he all but wrenched his lower body away from her. Lothíriel laughed and sat up, holding the sheets to her collarbone.

"I apologize," he mumbled. She glanced over her shoulder at him with another smile. She was caught off guard by his eyes, which bore into her, sliding from her bare back to her face.

"Aragorn was not elaborating when he said you were beautiful," Éomer murmured, watching her.

"King Elessar must have been referring to his Elven Queen," she said with a grin. But Éomer shook his head, his gaze still on her.

"I do not think so."

"Well," she muttered with a slight shrug. "There are worse things I suppose." She put her feet to the cold floor and wrapped the sheet around her body, using one hand to hold it to her and the other to grope around for her nightdress. She could hear her husband sigh and shift in the bed. Grasping her discarded robe, she traded the warm sheet for the chilled garment, wrapping it around herself quickly against the cold of the chamber. Walking to the long wooden closet, Lothíriel felt her teeth chatter against the cold. She glanced over her shoulder to see Éomer stoking the fire back to life. He'd pulled on the britches he'd worn the previous night and looked perfectly disheveled from a good night's sleep.

"I'm afraid I won't see you until super," he stated as a servant knocked on the door. Lothíriel nodded and allowed the young girl's entrance.

"Shall I draw a bath for my lady?" the servant asked after she placed a tray of fruit and bread on the table.

"Not this morning, Rionah," the Queen answered with a smile. "Tonight perhaps." The girl curtsied and left. An already dressed Éomer walked to Lothíriel, placing a hand on her waist.

"I will see you in the evening," he murmured kissing her cheek. He picked up a piece of fruit and followed the servant's path out the door, leaving Lothíriel half naked and smiling like an idiot.

Her day was busy, busier than usual with the farmers of Rohan and their families. Lothíriel appointed some of the women, such Lady Berewyn, of Edoras as supervisors, since the Queen was needed in the Healing House. Certainly these women who'd lived here all their lives would know better how to handle their kinsmen and women.

Lothíriel spent her time with Falas and the women of the Healing House. Already children and the elderly were afflicted with winter maladies. Lothíriel spoke with Lady Berewyn, insisting that any person with some healing skills ought work in the Healing House, as they weren't enough healers to the ill.

"It will be a long winter, my lady." Lothíriel glanced at Cellwyn as they stood together in the storeroom hanging herbs to dry. Taking this moment of privacy, Lothíriel decided to pursue her concern.

"For some more than others," she replied. She put down the sachet of thyme and placed a hand on Cellwyn's wrist. "I do not mean to intrude, lady Cellwyn, but I believe you and I both know the origin of these," she pulled the sleeve up and touched the bruises lightly. The other woman's eyes widened and she looked away.

"I am overly clumsy," she maintained quietly.

"Unless you spend your nights blind and wandering Fangorn, I doubt your clumsiness, no matter how considerable, could create such marks." Cellwyn bristled and Lothíriel scolded herself silently. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound crass."

"It's alright, my lady," the other woman muttered.

"Cellwyn," Lothíriel's voice softened, conveying her distress. "Please. If your husband is responsible for these, you must tell me. You should not have to live like this." Cellwyn eyed her suspiciously. Lothíriel guessed she'd spent years hiding the bruises and creating excuses. As much as she would like to work to earn Cellwyn's trust, Lothíriel could not hold faith in waiting.

"It is none of your concern, my Queen," Cellwyn insisted again, an edge touching her voice.

"Yes, it is. The happiness and safety of my people is just as much my concern as it is the King's." Cellwyn looked at her and Lothíriel decided to press on, confident she was reaching the woman. "You would not have to suffer in silence. Your husband would be dealt with and you would no long have to hide your skin."

"It is not so simple. He is not at fault for this." Lothíriel stood shocked as Cellwyn moved to the bench and sat down.

"Would you have me believe you are deserving of this abuse?"

"What good is a wife who cannot become pregnant?" Cellwyn's darkened eyes met the Queen's, the solemnity of her statement sinking Lothíriel's heart. But the older woman smiled sadly and shook her head. "That was his reasoning. I doubt highly he even recalls that I am his wife. Now, he fills himself with ale and finds imperfections to rage about."

"No longer," Lothíriel stated adamantly. "You will not return to him, Cellwyn."

"That will just anger him further," she whispered. "Many years ago, when he first began his routine, I dwelt with my sister, convinced it was just a stage of his. Or perhaps the trauma he and the other men of the Mark shoulder. What a terrible fit that put him in. No, my lady. It is my duty as his wife."

"It is no one's duty to suffer the foul temperament of others," Lothíriel hissed angrily. She was inwardly surprised at Cellwyn's calm attitude. Could it be that women here do not bring such injustices to their Queen's attention?

"What could you do, my lady?"

"You would be taken from his home so he could no longer hurt you. You could stay in one of the spare chambers in Meduseld, I'm sure," Lothíriel said, making plans in her mind. Whether or not they fit protocol. "Your husband would be removed from the Mark for his behavior, I should think, and…"

"Are the Princesses of Dol Amroth always so charismatic and resolute?" Cellwyn smiled slightly as Lothíriel looked at her, eyebrows raised. The young queen hesitated in her declaration and grinned.

"Only the mischievous ones," she answered. Both women smiled. Lothíriel was glad Cellwyn was at least warming to the idea that her life could be more than her husband's fits of rage. Perhaps it would all turn out for the better.

-o-

"This isn't going to end well," Éomer muttered, picking up a scorched piece of pottery. He and his men were sifting through the burned town south of Edoras. Thankfully the inhabitants were in Edoras, but if they'd not been brought to the city in time… Éomer frowned to think of the sight that could've met his eyes.

"The Dunlendings are becoming more aggressive," Gamling noted, touching the remains of a table with the tip of his boots. Éomer ignored his Marshall's observation, dropping the pottery with a scowl.

"More aggressive and more cunning," Elfhelm added. Éomer mounted Firefoot and stood beside the other man.

"At least the people are safe," Gamling said, following his King's lead. His horse skittered to the side, uneasy in the broken village.

"There are still the northern villages to be concerned with," Éomer murmured. "We cannot shelter them from the cold in Edoras. That leaves them vulnerable to the elements and the Dunlendings."

"But the Dunlendings must themselves be concerned with the coming season," Elfhelm pointed out. "Would they risk freezing to death to raid a village?"

"I don't know," Éomer answered begrudgingly. "But I cannot allow this sort of senseless destruction. They must be dealt with."

"It doesn't seem senseless, my lord," a Marshall remarked, flanking his King on the left. "The stores were empty and the barn torched. This is a sign."

"Of what?" Gamling queried.

"They are threatening the King. Burning the stables was a useless act if they were searching for food. But it was to make a point to the Lord of Rohan."

"And it will not be ignored," Éomer vowed. He tried to imagine what his uncle would do in this situation. Not stand around unsure, that was certain. Éomer wished he had Théoden's wisdom and knowledge. He wished Théoden were still King. He would keep his people safe.

"The tracks of the Dunlendings point to the Westemnet," Gamling said.

"Then we ride north," Éomer affirmed. "There are remaining villages near the Entwash and they must be warned. Elfhelm, take your company north, we will return to Edoras before nightfall."

"Yes, my lord."


	13. Hostilities

Chapter 13: Hostilities

Entering Meduseld, one could most certainly hear there was a commotion going on in the Golden Hall. Picking up her skirts, Lothíriel hurried to the small crowd of people. She could hear a man's angry voice and the gasps of people as she pushed her way through. Two guards were holding a disheveled man, who was struggling vehemently against their arms. On the ground lay a form, cowering beneath its arms.

"What is happening?" the Queen demanded of the guards.

"Hallas here has had a bit too much to drink, my lady," one man said apprehensively. She frowned and stepped in front of him. The form on the ground was none other than Cellwyn. Lothíriel's heart sank as she saw her friend quivering behind her own hands. It had only been a day and a half since they'd spoken in the storeroom, and already the brute found it fit to touch her.

"Is this Lady Cellwyn's husband?" The man in question looked at her, his eyes bloodshot and his expression cruel. The guards nodded in affirmation.

"Lord Hallas, your wife has been released from your command," she said tightly. He sneered at her, the scent of stale alcohol assaulting her senses.

"Who are you to make that decision? Cellwyn is my wife."

"I am your Queen."

"You, Gondorian bitch, are not my queen," he rasped. The two men holding him tightened their grip as he fought against them. Another guard leapt forward at his words, the point of his sword against Hallas' neck. Despite her displeasure and growing fear, Lothíriel stepped toward Hallas, her grey eyes watching him.

"You may think so, but that does not give you the power to mistreat your wife," she hissed. Lothíriel was surprising herself with this display, certain she appeared barbaric before these people. Hallas spit at her, his foul saliva landing shy of her face. Her disgust notwithstanding, the young Queen stood her ground, staring him in the eye until he looked away, the blade against his neck slackening.

"Cellwyn is my wife," he mumbled.

"That is no longer so, Lord Hallas," Lothíriel murmured. He looked up and made one last attempt to lunge at her, his teeth bared like an animal.

"You are not welcomed here, you Gondorian whore. Go back to your land and ranger king -" His words were caught in his mouth as he was dealt a blow to the head.

"Hold your tongue, Hallas son of Fréalaf," a voice cut through the air. Lothíriel tried to find its source through the crowd of people. They parted, revealing Éomer. He stormed toward the man in arms, his expression thunderous. At first, Lothíriel thought his anger was with her, but that fear died as her husband grabbed Hallas by his hair, forcing his head up.

"You are dismissed from my éored and expelled from Edoras," the King said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Leave now." The men released him and he fell in a pile of limbs at his King's feet. Staggering to his feet, Hallas stumbled through the group of people, muttering inebriated nonsense.

Lothíriel didn't trouble herself with his exit as she knelt beside Cellwyn, who'd lowered her hands to look at her monarch. Her left eye was terribly swollen and turning a rainbow of angry colors. But other than that, she appeared alright. Holding on to her arm gently, Lothíriel guided her to her feet as Lady Berewyn curtly sent the onlookers back to their business.

"Are you hurt elsewhere?" Lothíriel murmured to the woman. She shook her head slowly, wincing with effort. The Queen called for a servant, placing Cellwyn in the girl's care. "Bring her to the Healing House and notify Master Falas. Take a guard with you." The servant nodded and led Cellwyn away. By the time Lothíriel could let out a sigh, the Golden Hall had cleared of the crowd. She was impressed with Lady Berewyn's ability to command obedience and wished she could do the same.

"Are you alright?" she turned to see Éomer looking at her. By the door hovered his men, Gamling and Elfhelm already making their way toward the two.

"Other than being spit upon, yes," she smiled slightly. Éomer did not. His expression had only softened slightly since he cast Hallas away. Lothíriel sighed and accepted Elfhelm's offering of a handkerchief to wipe the saliva off her shoulder.

"Luckily his aim isn't so decent when intoxicated," the man quipped as Lothíriel smiled at him. Éomer ignored the Marshall and turned to stare at his wife.

"What possessed you to take this into your own hands?" The Queen stared at her husband, astonished. "He could've done worse than spit on you!"

"Well someone had to," she retorted indignantly. "Seeing as the rest of the court was standing about watching."

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I just…" He looked away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. Lothíriel felt her irritation cool as she shook her head.

"It's done for, now," she said calmly. "I'm sorry you and your men were disturbed by this."

"It's quite alright," Gamling assured her. "Never did like that fellow. Suppose you did us a favor. He was always getting boisterous, that Hallas. A shame to his namesake."

"What do you mean?" Lothíriel asked, vaguely recalling a similar title from her books.

"Hallas is a Gondorian name, my lady," he explained. "Hallas son of Cirion was a ruling Steward in the White City. He created the land of Rohan and the name of its people."

"Strange I am not familiar with him," she mused. "But then, Gondorian history rarely piqued my interest."

"Nothing but wars and dissatisfied Stewards," Elfhelm teased. Lothíriel laughed, which allowed Gamling to relax. She could tell he was worried how the Queen might take to jokes of her country by a Rohirrim man.

"Quite true, my lord. Now, if you will allow me leave, I should see to Lady Cellwyn."

"Give our regards," Elfhelm called after her as she walked away. She nodded and left their company to check upon her friend.

-o-

"Calls to mind the willful nature of your sister, my lord," Gamling said as they watched the retreating form of the Queen.

"Don't remind me," Éomer muttered. "The last thing I need is another Eowyn running about, sword raised, hacking Ring Wraiths apart like they were straw."

"You do seem to attract those kind of women," Elfhelm smirked. Despite his mood, Éomer grinned and nudged his friend in the elbow. A wave of nostalgia flooded him with memories of the two of them as lads. Although he'd lived in Aldburg much of his adolescence, Éomer and Elfhelm were always creating mischief when the latter would visit him. He fondly remembered how little Eowyn would dash after them, trying to take part in the fun. He missed her.

"My lord?" Gamling was giving him a quizzical look, and for good reason probably.

"Staring into the Grey Havens, are you?" Elfhelm asked with a chuckle. "Pretty soon your wife will be ruling Rohan and you'll be knitting with the spinsters."

"If my life should take such a fall, I'll bring you down with me," the King answered smugly.

"Someone ought to keep you in line while you're making blankets with the womenfolk," his friend countered with a smirk.

"Enough you two," Gambling shook his head with a good-natured sigh. "I don't know how your highness' sister or wife puts up with this."

"They don't," Éomer answered with a snort. "Come then. We need to get back to the éored before they leave without us."

The three men left the Golden Hall in better spirits than they'd arrived. The midday sun was bright in the winter sky. Firefoot awaited his master's hand, his gossamer coat vibrant in the light. Éomer, Gamling and Elfhelm mounted their respective horses and led the éored down the main street of Edoras. For the first moment in his kingship, Éomer considered the possibility of his people surviving the cruel winter. Once that season was behind them, measure could be taken to rebuild and revitalize the land.

But, of course, there was the problem of the Dunlendings. As much as he detested thinking about them, he knew it was an issue that had to be faced head on. If their violent acts of vandalism were more than tomfoolery, Éomer had to be ready for anything. Especially with the bands of orcs roaming the land. Faramir sent his wife's brother a letter voicing his deep concern regarding the renegade fiends. While their master was destroyed, they were still a threat and a dangerous one at that. Bema forbid the Dunlendings join forces with the orcs…

"My lord!" Éomer glanced up. He'd lost complete awareness while in thought. Already they'd ridden across the plains and covered much land. The King wheeled Firefoot around to look at the man who addressed him.

"What is it, Folcred?"

"A Dunlending!" Following the soldier, Éomer frowned, seeing a grounded man, huddled to the cold ground. Dismounting, the King of Rohan removed his helmet, glaring at the pitiful creature.

"Speak your business, Dunlending," he said curtly. The man glanced up, his dark hair covering most of his face. Éomer could see the filminess of one eye, marking blindness.

"This frozen winter will kill your people," the man rasped in labored Rohirric. "You, Éomer King, are doomed."

"Mind your words," Gamling snarled, raising his spear. But there was no need, for the ailing man sneered severely before succumbing to his body's pleas. He dropped to the ground and lay motionless.

"This is a fair warning," Éomer murmured, more to himself than his men. "I doubt strongly the frozen winter he speaks of is the weather." He remounted Firefoot, steering the horse back to the direction of Edoras. "We return. I will write to my sister and her husband of this danger, for it may affect them as well."

**A/N: "Staring off into the Grey Havens" is my made-up phrase, which would be like saying "staring off into space" or what have you, if you didn't catch it.**


	14. Letters

Chapter 14: Letters

_Dearest Lothíriel, _

_While it does not surprise me in the slightest that you took it upon yourself to dismiss this man, it worries me that he was so violent. You must be careful, little sister. You know the tales of olde that hail the Rohirrim as brutish. Though I know Father would never marry you to a barbarian and King Éomer is no such thing, do not be naive to the anger of men. Our brothers and I have sheltered you from these things, but you are on your own and in a foreign land. _

_But enough of such warnings. You were never terribly talented at sitting still and quiet, were you, little Lothy? No. You were off climbing trees, getting your nursemaid into a lather and making us boys look like idiots. And here you are a woman and married! And you've started your very own Healing House, have you? I am pleased to hear this. Amrothos is certain you are running about in naught but riding breeches, hollering orders and running the place tight as can be. Your poor husband!_

_News from home is dull, I'm afraid. Father is having the south garden replanted. He finds the pink flowers far too… pink for his tastes. Nani put up a valiant fight to keep her pink flowers, but alas, was defeated by father's smirk. King Elessar and his beautiful Queen just arrived for a visit. It is wonderful to have them here. Queen Arwen has fallen in love with the ocean, just as you predicted she might. _

_But things are not the same without you here. Erchirion and his wife welcomed their second daughter and your absence was noted. I am sure you are having a lovely time in Edoras. It is a breathtaking view, if I recall correctly. And you have that brat of a horse to keep you company. Hopefully soon you and your husband will pay us a visit. And who knows, little Lothy, you may have a youngster in tow._

_My regards to King Éomer and the court of Rohan,_

_Your loving brother,_

_Elphir_

Lothíriel smiled as she set the letter down. It was a relief to know that Dol Amroth was at peace. She longed to see it once more, but for the moment, her dreams would have to suffice. Glancing to the side, she saw Éomer at his desk, deep in concentration reading his own letter…

_Dearest Brother,_

_News of home troubles me. Your wife was prudent in bringing the people to Edoras, but what of the outlying villages to the north? And if the Dunlendings have become more aggressive, there is need for concern. Shall I call upon Aragorn to send men to aid you? There is no shame in receiving help. But I know you are a dignified, stubborn man, Brother. You are also a wise King. Our uncle would be proud. _

_Faramir sends his regards. He has taken to long walks with his son across the fields of Ithilien. Our son looks just as you did so many years ago, though I scarce remember you as a child. You had grow up so fast. But Elboron is a strong lad with his father's auburn locks, though he holds the strong will of a man of Rohan._

_I apologize for the length of this letter, Brother. But there is a winter feast to be prepared. Kindly send Lothíriel our love. Tell her Faramir misses his female cousin entirely too much. Ask her to relay to you stories of their youth. They sound much like you, Elfhelm and I._

_With all the love and devotion in Arda,_

_Eowyn, Princess of Ithilien _

Éomer sighed, dropping the letter onto the desk. He was pleased for his sister, for her happiness was the most deserved. But he felt a sting of insult at her words. Seeking help from Aragorn? Certainly she believed her brother could handle his own kingdom without appealing to King Elessar for help. The Dunlendings were Éomer's problem. Not Aragorn's.

Standing, he folded the letter and placed it atop the others from Aragorn, Faramir, Legolas and even one from Merry, all the way in the Shire. Éomer was touched the Hobbit would write to him and had immediately returned his own letter.

"Is your sister well?" Éomer looked at his wife as she folded the piece of paper from Elphir.

"Yes. She asks after you," he replied. "Your cousin's son, Elboron, is a good lad."

"I have no doubt," she answered softly. He noticed the expression in her eyes darken. They'd both hoped their night of passion had resulted in a child, but so far, it seemed it was not so. He knew she was distraught about it, though she never said anything. Coming to sit beside her on the bed, he took her hand gently.

"Hope is not lost," he murmured. She raised her grey eyes to him and smiled slightly. Before she could answer, a knock on the door sounded. With a frown, Éomer walked to the door and opened it. A maid curtsied and apologized for the disturbance.

"A messenger from the Westfold, my lord," she said. Lothíriel came up behind Éomer, pulling her night robe around her against the cold. "He has ridden for many days and desires your Highnesses' audience."

Éomer and Lothíriel followed the girl to the Golden Hall, where Elfhelm approached them. A man sat hunched over a table, eating and drinking as though he hadn't seen food in days.

"My lord and lady," the Marshal of the East-mark greeted them. "He came not a few moments ago, riding alone. Both man and beast were exhausted."

Lothíriel walked toward the man and sat down across from him. Éomer and Elfhelm stood nearby. The man eat ravenously, his long blond hair catching pieces of the food. His beard was dirty and his expression gaunt. After a moment of hurried eating, he calmed, taking a swig of ale.

"What is your name?" Lothíriel asked softly and amiably in Rohirric. The man looked at her for a moment before gulping the rest of his drink down.

"Ceorl, my lady queen," he answered, his voice tired.

"What brings you on such an errand?"

"My village," he coughed and produced a dirty note from within his jerkin. She waited patiently for him to open it while Éomer fought the urge to fidget. "Many of my people have fallen grievously ill. A malady of the season. They say…" he hesitated, glancing at the King. "They say the Queen of Rohan can cure any illness. That she can save the villagers from dying."

"Hand me the letter," Elfhelm said brusquely, taking it from the man. Opening it, he read its piece to the audience of Éomer, Lothíriel, Gamling and the other men of the Riddermark.

_To our most gracious Lord and Lady, _

_Éomer King and Lothíriel Queen of Rohan,_

_Our predicament is grave, my King. The winter has striped our village of warmth and life. Fires burn low and animals die. Our children waste away with the lack of food. But more importantly, the health of your people is suffering the ills of winter. Young and old are falling prey to a terrible ague that consumes their mind and body. _

_It has been spread, a glorious rumor that our Queen, the respectable Lady of Rohan, is a renowned healer. Please, my King, send us her aid or we shall surely parish._

_In honor and faith,_

_Deor, Magistrate _

"What nonsense!" Gamling scoffed behind them. "He would ask the Queen to journey like a Nazgul across Rohan when there are healers enough in Edoras and Aldburg to make the journey."

"It is not so," Elfhelm murmured. "Master Falas cannot make such a trip. Not with this weather."

"Well I am not going to send my wife there," Éomer declared irritably. Lothíriel glanced at him before her gaze settled on the messenger, her expression thoughtful.

"A fever that sweats itself night and day? Eyes leak film and a cough that stirs the bones?"

"Yes, my lady," the man looked up from his plate, eyes wide. "You know of this malady?"

"I do," she answered. "And it is curable. Though it takes patience and time to learn how to administer."

"Please, my queen," the man cried. "My wife and child lie upon their deathbed. You must journey back with me to save them."

"Absolutely not," Gamling snapped. Éomer could barely believe such a thing was happening.

"No," Lothíriel said quietly, standing. "I will go." She raised her hand to silence Gamling and Éomer's open mouths. "I could not live with myself if I did not. I will go and teach a number of villagers how to cure this illness and return."

"It's too much of a risk," Éomer stated with a scowl.

"And it is even more so to leave these people – your people – vulnerable when you and I both know something can be done to help them."

"I would accompany my lady," Elfhelm volunteered. "We can take half of the Mark, if you wish it."

Éomer turned away from them, contemplating this news with a heavy heart. He knew his wife and friend were right. He could not simply ignore his people's plea for help. Lothíriel's help. With a heavy sigh, he faced them.

"I will allow this. But Lord Elfhelm will go with you. Take five men with you. As much as I would like to send the entire Riddermark to ensure your safety, you must ride light and fast." He regretted his words as he said them, but he could not go back now.

-o-

The morning came sooner than Lothíriel had anticipated. She'd barely slept and found her movements retarded by the lack of rest. Éomer had slept fitfully beside her, tossing and turning. He was awake before her, gone from the room when she opened her eyes. They'd decided the sooner the better and she would leave at midday.

Stretching, Lothíriel pulled herself from bed and dressed. She wore the riding dress she'd arrived to Edoras in. beneath, she put on a layer of warm skirts. Pulling the cloak from its peg, she glanced at herself in the mirror.

_Off on another adventure, little Lothy_. She could quite imagine her brother saying that to her as she quickly plaited her hair. She called for a maid, who helped pin the braid so it wouldn't flap about as Lothíriel shoved her cold feet into the warm deerskin boots her father had made for her. Within the left boot there was a thin but sturdy piece of fabric, which held a small dagger. Just in case.

Deeming herself prepared, Lothíriel fetched a quick breakfast and met her husband outside. The sun was garishly bright, causing her to squint to see anything at all. A stable hand approached her guiding the unruly horse, Dergh. The beast whinnied appreciatively as she ran her hand across his face. Elfhelm winked at her as he mounted his own steed. She turned to see Éomer standing behind her, his hand on the stirrup leather, his face a mask. But she could see it in his eyes – he was anxious.

"The first sign of trouble, you return immediately," he said sternly to Elfhelm, who nodded. Looking at Lothíriel, Éomer frowned. "Beneath the saddle pad is a sword. My men are more than capable to defend you, but if you should need it…"

"I will know where to find it," she finished. She smiled, placing her hand on his. "It will be alright. We'll be return sooner than you think."

"I will count the hours," he muttered. Giving her a leg-up, Éomer gazed at his wife from the ground. "Be well, my lady. Do your job and, above all, return safely. Rohan cannot lose its Queen. Neither can I."

With a nod, Lothíriel guided Dergh to Elfhelm, who smiled kindly. There were five men of the Riddermark in their company. As they rode silently down the street away from Edoras, Lothíriel glanced back to see Éomer standing on the steps to Meduseld, his eyes on her. Behind, Lady Berewyn and Lady Ivriel raised their hand in farewell. Lady Cellwyn stood on the veranda of the Healing House with a smile, waving. It was as if they were wishing her goodbye forever.

"It is custom to see royalty through the gates of Edoras," Elfhelm murmured to her. "Especially a queen."

"I see," she replied, her smile fading.

"Cheer up, my lady," he said with a grin. "I happen to be the best and most jovial escort in all of Rohan." Lothíriel smirked as the gates opened up to the cold plains of the countryside.

"What _have_ I gotten myself into?"

**A/N: Thanks for all your wonderful reviews!**


	15. Darkness

**A/N: Before I continue, I have two things to say. One, I'm not good at writing actions scenes, so y'all have been warned. Second, thank you so much to Efia-an and Sarahbarr17 for their consistent and lovely commenting. It means so much! Enjoy, my pets…**

Chapter 15: Darkness

Of all the things he could have said, he warned – no, threatened that she stay safe. Why couldn't he have embraced her? Or told her that he was proud of what she was doing? He hadn't realized the effect Lothíriel had on him. But living in her absence was positively insufferable. He rationalized his attitude, thinking this was the first time in months Edoras had been without a female sovereign. But that's wasn't true. What of the months before Lothíriel? How could it be that he'd managed himself for months without a woman around and now he could barely last a day?

Pacing restlessly in the darkness of the Golden Hall, Éomer upbraided himself for allowing this venture. What possessed him to agree to such nonsense? And to have Elfhelm go along, nay, bolster the idea… ridiculous. As King, he should've gone with them. As her husband, he should've gone with them. Éomer concluded, with wry solemnity, that he was falling into madness as Gamling cleared his throat.

"What?" the King snapped, but regretted the tone. He sighed and sat down, looking at his Captain, who crossed the floor quickly. The faint light of wax-heavy candelabras gave the man an eerie glow as he stopped with a bow.

"There has been a decline in Dunlending activity," the man replied, stepping toward his ruler. "No more burned villages or destroyed barns. If you may allow me to say so, it is strange for them. But it could be the weather. Perhaps it has gotten the best of the brutes."

"Or perhaps they've joined forces with orcs," Éomer muttered. Gamling frowned deeply with the very possibility, his expression hardening.

"You don't think… ?"

"I don't know," the monarch sighed. "I was loath to allow the Queen to journey so far and that, along with your news plagues me. I wish you were right, but the Dunlendings are not ones to let weather bar their way."

"That may be so, but it is its own problem. Loth – the Queen is in no danger," Gamling assured his friend. He came to stand before Éomer, hoping to keep the King from losing his wits. "Dunlendings are not known for traveling so far north, especially in winter. And you and I know the faculty of Elfhelm."

"Yes, of course." Éomer stood, concluding the conversation. "You are right. But no more tonight. We will sojourn this talk until morning's light. We must also discuss the problem of stores and grain. I fear we'll dwindle in stock before the winter ends."

"Yes, my lord," Gamling bowed again and turned to go, but not before he gave Éomer an encouraging pat on the shoulder. "Sleep well."

Éomer grunted as he left. Walking blindly to his chambers, the King realized what a precarious pedestal Rohan was on. This winter could be the end of his people. With the War of the Ring over, there was peace between men. But economic concord was far from achieved. While Rohan had not suffered as much structural damage as Gondor, her fields were, for the most part, burned. The main source of trade was agricultural and if Rohan could not replenish her crops, there would be impossible to return to the old ways.

After securing the door shut behind him, Éomer sat down on the bed, gazing at the night sky beyond the window. Somewhere, in the vastness of his land, his wife was sleeping on hard ground and trying to do something worthwhile. Leaning his forearms against his knees, Éomer hid his face with his hands, sighing with a heaviness belonging to a man twice his age. Without bothering to remove his shoes or outer clothing, he lay down, touching the pillow beside him. he was overwhelmed with comfort and calm as the fragrance of sage and earth met his tired senses.

-o-

"We'll stop here," Elfhelm called. The night was dark, the moon hidden by thick grey clouds. Dergh halted beside the other horses, snorting softly. Dismounting, Lothíriel strained to see the vague outlines of their company. The cold bit through her riding dress and her hands were numb. She was deeply impacted with the endurance of the Rohirrim. While she was accustomed to days in the saddle, the painful cold and difficulty of terrain made her glad to have Elfhelm and his men with her.

"How long until we reach the village?" she asked, helping the Marshall set water down for the horses. She was impressed in the amount of time these riders spent with their horses. Certainly it was no lark that they were called the Horse Lords.

"We'll be there by sundown tomorrow, my lady," he answered, slipping the halter onto his horse. Once the horses were settled, they huddled close to a meager fire. They would have prepared a tent for the Queen, Elfhelm explained, but it would take more room than necessary.

"I am no stranger to bedrolls," Lothíriel replied with a smile. It was perhaps indecent to sleep out in the open with a group of men, but she was too tired to take notice. They would rise before the sun and set out in hopes of covering as much land as possible.

Though dark, Lothíriel could make out the large outcroppings of magnificent stones, jutting many feet into the air. It was like a graveyard of fallen mountains, beautiful and majestic. She longed to see it in the light of day.

Settling down onto her 'bed,' Lothíriel stared up at the cloudy night. Despite the biting chill, it was a gorgeous place and she took this time to admire it. Shadows of the rocks slid and fell as the moon's face peeked from behind the clouds. Lothíriel thought back to the days of Sauron. Protected in Dol Amroth, she'd been kept in the dark about the war and its proceedings. But she could never understand why anyone would want to turn such a beautiful land into an industrial wasteland. She'd been told stories of the great Ents who'd destroyed the wizard Saruman's infrastructure at Isengard, but she knew her imagination could not to the scene justice. As glad as she was to have been at home in relative safety, she couldn't help but wonder what it must have felt like to defeat of legions of evil. Never in her twenty-five years of life had she ever been so proud of her race. A crowning moment for Men.

Almost completely asleep, Lothíriel turned to her aside, eyes drifting shut when the sound of something thudding beside her roused her. Opening her eyes, her breath caught as she stared into the glazed eyes of one of the guards, head separated from body. Lothíriel choked on a scream as she floundered away from the dead man, her mind desperately trying to make sense of this. Her limbs, still heavy with sleep, made her slow as she heard the sounds of men grunting and shouting. Where was Elfhelm? What was happening?

_You're being attacked, stupid_, she reprimanded herself. She couldn't just lie there and wait to be killed, so she forced her body into action. Remembering the sword, Lothíriel staggered to her feet. Bulky shadows were cutting through the night and the sounds of death broke through the formerly quiet air. While she knew there were only seven of them, it sounded as though an army was being slaughtered and it made her weak with nausea. Forcing her horror down, the Queen of Rohan fought to stay within a thread's width of sanity.

Lunging for the horses, Lothíriel searched for Dergh. She could hear the shouts of their assailants behind her as she tried to remain inconspicuous. She feared for her life and the lives of the Rohirrim, but she had to focus on finding that sword if she even had a hope of defending herself. Finally Dergh's halter found her grasp and she attempted to force her cold fingers to work against the leather of his saddle. Swearing under her breath, she hurried to undo the straps that held the sword in place as her horse pranced around. Before she could loosen the final strap, a hand grabbed her shoulder, wrenching her back.

She screamed in frustration and fear, punching blindly. Her fist came in contact with her attacker's body and he growled angrily, lurching toward her. Lothíriel ducked to the side, hoping the terrified movement of the horses would discourage the person from searching for her. From the sounds around her, she could only guess there were about twenty men, all of whom were aggressive trying to kill her and her guards. She could hear the gurgled sounds of a man dying and tried to flee the scene.

The shame of leaving her husband's men hit her hard as she neared a clearing, the sounds of murder behind her. With that shame in her chest, she hesitated, her legs threatening to fail. If she could just get a weapon, she could help or at least wound some of the bastards. But such things were futile as she felt a heavy object hit the back of her head. She fell in a heap on the cold ground, the dimming sight of two boot-clad feet bidding her consciousness farewell as darkness welcomed her.


	16. Questions, Concerns and Headaches

Chapter 16: Questions, Concerns and Headaches

Lothíriel's awakening was anything but glorious. Her head felt twice its size and her muscles ached from unidentified strain. The ground against her cheek was frozen and rough, stone she guessed. She lay on her side, trying to get a sense of where the rest of her body was. Though it was cold, she was not chilled to the bone and no wind assaulted her skin. her eyesight was fogged, though she couldn't tell if that was because she was in a dark place or if she was going blind. She felt utterly helpless.

_It's your own damn fault_, she reminded herself. If she hadn't run away like such a coward, she wouldn't be in this predicament, whatever predicament that was. She wiggled her fingers and realized her hands were bound behind her back. Her ankles were bound as well, her legs curled slightly beneath her. It was the most uncomfortable position and she could barely breathe without setting her muscles aflame.

She recalled the midnight attackers and the dying screams of her guards. She prayed some had escaped, Elfhelm as well. She couldn't imagine the horrors of the actual event and struggled to remember her part in it. Her skull felt cracked and her hair was in disarray. She could hear quiet murmurings far from her, but no immediate sound near her. She knew they knew she wasn't dead, so the element of surprise was futile. Not that there was much she could do in her present state.

Compelling her body to obey her, Lothíriel bent and bowed silently, finding a bit of leverage in her position to force her torso up. Though her hands were bound behind her, she was able to support herself on her forearms (though she was sure her shoulder had dislocated itself in the process) and get a better view of her surroundings.

Other than a faint glow far off, she couldn't see much. Wherever it was, it was enclosed by stone. The wind whistled softly beyond the covering of rock and the dankness of the fissure made Lothíriel's head ache further. At least she wasn't dead. But she may as well be since she wasn't entirely sure she'd make it out of this predicament alive. Shifting to the side, she heard a loud groan further in the depths of the fissure. The faraway voices became farther as they followed the sounds of unease. Lothíriel was positive she didn't want to know the origin of those groans. Stretching her legs out, she felt a bulk against her calf. Retracting her appendages in fear, she listened. No movement or growling. Either it was a sleeping creature or a dead one.

She found a bit more courage to extend her bound legs toward the form, touching it gingerly. It breathed heavily, moving, groping and squirming in the darkness. She could hear its labored breathing and deduced it was in pain. It was clearly in no better shape than she. Scooting slowly to it, Lothíriel tried to nudge it gently with her shoulder. It moaned. She recognized the noise from within its throat.

"Elfhelm," she whispered, shocked at the degraded quality of her voice. In the dimness, she could see its head rise until she was met with the shadowed eyes of the Marshall. Before she could offer him any comfort, she heard footsteps. Two men lumbered toward them, bearing torches. They were dirty, dark haired fiends who looked like they'd traveled the Gorgoroth plains of Mordor with naught but the skin on their backs.

As the light fell on Elfhelm, Lothíriel repressed a horrified gasp. A cut the size of man's finger was etched deeply into the skin of the Marshall's left temple, dried blood a testament to its pain. One eyes was swollen shut and his lip bled fresh, staining the his fair beard. His other eye squinted against the light as he mumbled something of a threat to these men, who sneered at his bound body. They turned to Lothíriel, mocking expressions faded.

"You are the healer Queen?" the bigger of the men asked in halting Rohirric. He kicked her leg gently as he spoke. Lothíriel lifted her chin, grey eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?" she inquired with what little dignity she could salvage, given her state. The other man smirked and looked at her.

"You have no leverage with which to ask questions, my _lady_," he said, his Rohirric far better than his companion's.

"You have kept me alive for a reason," she countered with a frown. The larger man reached down and hauled her to her feet, which were unsteady in their captivity. He had to hold her up, which made her scowl with displeasure. Elfhelm protested, trying to kick out with his equally bound legs, which got him a threatening glare from both men.

"You know who we are, Gondorian Queen," the larger man hissed in his faltering Rohirric. His breath smelled of meat and sweat as he leaned her close to him. "We are Dunlendings, the bane of your husband-king. Your questions are pointless."

"Then I assume you know who I am, or I wouldn't be alive." Lothíriel shocked herself with her audacity. She had no idea where this defiant nature was coming from and frankly, it worried her. Her captors obviously shared her surprise as they snorted and the man who supported her let her go. Without balance, Lothíriel toppled to the ground, sitting up immediately and moving closer to Elfhelm, a meager attempt to protect him.

"Just answer the question," the other man said. Her silence made the large man fidget and he said something in a harsh quick language. His companion quieted him, staring at Lothíriel. Before she could speak, another man came behind them.

"Queen of Rohan, I apologize for the discourtesy of my men," a smooth voice said from the shadow. She could see the vague outline of the voice's owner beyond the flame light. He was of average height, not nearly as bulky as the man who'd held her up. He stepped into the light, crouching down to her. He was young, Éomer's age. His dark shoulder length hair was pulled away from his face, his bright almost sickly blue eyes staring at her. There was coarse, short hair on his chin and upper lip, his jaw dusted with stubble. For his all his manners, he seemed well groomed.

"My name is Beorn," he said with a smile. His teeth were white and straight and she realized that he wasn't all together hideous to look at, unlike his men. He wore dark clothes of heavy material and his hands, she saw, were rough from years of work. He took a knife from his belt and her breath hitched in her throat. He grinned and cut the ropes around her ankles and reached around her to do the same with the bonds on her wrists. He was unbelievably close, his eyes watching her always. His fingers brushed her skin as he move away from her, a smile pulling at his lips.

"There now," he said as if proud of himself. Lothíriel couldn't help but wince as she brought her arms from behind her. Her skin was chaffed from the ropes, but she preferred it to being killed, though that was still a possibility.

"Can I get you something?" Beorn asked with another smile, standing up. Lothíriel stood unsteadily, positioning herself in front of Elfhelm.

"What do you want with me?" she asked hoarsely. Beorn's men shifted uncomfortably behind him, but he never dropped his expression. Returning the knife to his belt, the Dunlending crossed his arms over his broad chest.

"Your help."

----

Éomer felt like kicking something. All day he'd been in council meetings and he felt as though nothing had been accomplished. Aragorn and Faramir sent viceroys each to discuss with the King of Rohan trading possibilities, but both seemed to be missing the larger picture.

"How do you expect Rohan to trade if there are no crops?" the blonde King asked in an exasperated tone. The thin man that represented Ithilien shrank under the younger man's glare and shrugged his ungainly shoulders in response. Éomer turned away from the group and stalked the floor.

"My King has suggested –"

"I know what he's suggested," Éomer snapped at representative from Minas Tirith. "But I can do nothing until spring. My concern is with the people of Rohan and their survival."

"Lord Faramir hoped you might take his offer and allow Ithilien to send grain and seeds."

"We don't need seeds," the King muttered, rubbing his temples. He knew Faramir and Aragorn meant well. "Return to your respective lords and tell them Rohan appreciates their generosity, but we can do nothing until after winter."

"As you wish, my lord," the Ithilien viceroy murmured. "But there is also the matter of the orcs."

He paused, anticipating a sardonic remark from the King, and when none came he continued. "They have been clever enough to avoid detection and there has been no formal encounter. Lord Faramir and King Elessar do not believe they would seek to hassle Gondor. Not now. But Rohan, my lord, is vulnerable."

"You are telling me things I already know," Éomer grumbled impatiently. "What would your lords have me do? Send the Riddermark to destroy them?"

"It was a warning, my lord."

"And a well informed one, I'm sure. Now, Lord Gamling will show you back to your quarters. You have a long ride home tomorrow and I have letters to bear to your lords." He dismissed him, slumping into the seemingly grand chair. The Golden Hall was cold, despite the large fires that burned and the warmth of his clothes. Éomer couldn't shake this feeling of utter helplessness. He knew well his own stubbornness. And while he longed to ask his uncle what to do, he wasn't going to give Faramir, Eowyn, Aragorn or anyone else the satisfaction of knowing it.

Éomer sighed, shielding his eyes with one hand and leaning back against the chair. What satisfaction? They were only trying to help. And Rohan needed it. Éomer needed it. But what did a Steward's son, a Shield Maiden, and Ranger know of these things? It had been Theodred who'd been groomed for monarchy, not Éomer. How could Théoden ever think he could handle the weight of this responsibility?

He felt pressure behind his eyes and longed to see his wife again. He'd grown fond of their quiet evenings, both reading, her in bed, him sitting at his desk. He wished to see her dark hair, beautifully luminescent in the low light and grey eyes. Éomer knew tales of the Elf, Mithrellas who came to Gondor and bore the first Prince of Dol Amroth. Her blood coursed through Lothíriel's veins and Éomer knew his wife's beauty was evidence of that lineage.

He hoped she was alright. He found himself wondering if she was uncomfortable on the cold hard ground, or if all those hours in the saddle exhausted her. But he remembered, with certain comfort, that she grew up with three brothers. She was not as delicate as he sometimes thought she was and he liked that. He was attracted to her quiet strength and occasional boldness. Everything about Lothíriel made him want her.

Glancing up, Éomer saw the Lady Ivriel clearing the wine glasses and plates from the table. The King of Rohan stood and walked toward the woman, who curtsied when she noticed his approach. Sitting down in the chair the representative of Ithilien had recently vacated, Éomer indicated for Ivriel to sit as well, which she did with a curious expression.

"Tell me about my wife. Tell me about Lothíriel."

A/N: So it's not direct communication, but he's trying! He wants to love her pretty. Oh, and (being the nerd I am), I did a wee bit of research and it turns out Lothy was twenty-one and Éomer was twenty-nine when they got married. Oh well. We'll pretend she's a little older and he's a little younger. Creative license and all that.


	17. Nature of the Beast

Chapter 17: Nature of the Beast

Lothíriel stared at him dumbly. Surely this was some cruel joke before they pulled out their swords and beheaded her. He wanted her help? With what – regicide? This was ridiculous.

"Your silence makes me wonder if you're slow in the wits or if you're truly shocked with my statement." Beorn smirked at her as she shifted uneasily on her feet. "Are you daft, woman? Speak!"

"You haven't put me in the easiest of positions," she snapped. Beorn's eyebrows rose with amusement. Lothíriel bit her tongue and took a breath before speaking again. "What help could I possibly give you?"

"You are a famed healer," he answered, tilting his head to the side, watching her. "One of my men is injured in a way that is beyond our remedial skills. If you will heal and tend to his needs, we will let you and your fellow here return home. I can see that you doubt my word, but it is all I have to offer. That and your lives."

Lothíriel tried to make sense of what he was telling her, but there were still too many unanswered questions. Questions she wasn't entirely sure she'd get answered. But now seemed as good a time as any to inquire.

"You may be telling me the truth. But you had better be prepared to give me some answers. Where are my other men?"

"Is it not obvious?" Lothíriel's heart froze as realization set in. they'd killed every one of those good men. Husbands, sons, brothers… slaughtered. Beorn's expression softened as though he actually cared. "We are not the delicate aristocrats you've no doubt been exposed to your entire life."

Lothíriel still lacked the words to speak further, but she glanced down at Elfhelm. His usually warm brown eyes blazed with fury and malice as he glared (with one eye) at Beorn.

"Leverage," the Dunlending said, guessing her next question. "We kept this one alive so you might behave reasonably. He's a man of stature, not some guard. It seemed you would be more obliging if there was someone about who motivated you."

"You think those men's lives are worthless?" the Queen cried angrily. Beorn smiled sympathetically, reaching a hand out as if to comfort her, but she recoiled. "I will do what I can for this man. But I have business to attend to further north."

"Ah, you mean the village?" Lothíriel nodded slowly, her brows furrowed. "Yes, well, that won't be an issue any longer. That village has been dead for many weeks." He stared at her open-mouth look of horror, which replaced itself with disgust. Beorn sighed. "It was not our doing. Orcs came through. Ravaged the place. But it occurred to me, once my man was injured, that this village could be of some use."

"You… monster," she snarled, her emotions getting the better of her. "What of the messenger?"

"Oh him. He was paid well, have no fear." Lothíriel had never been so incensed in her life.

"How dare you lie and call my men and me here. And then kill them! Abduct us and expect me to help you! It is you who is daft if you truly believe I will agree to this."

"You've got quite a mouth, my lady." His tone was snide and his smile was getting ever wider. "I think you and I are both aware that your husband would not allow you anywhere near us if he knew the truth. Now come, we don't have much time."

The two men flanked her, one holding each arm. They escorted her away from Elfhelm, who was struggling against his bonds. Beorn followed Lothíriel and she felt his eyes on her. The cave widened as the walked. Deep within was a company of ten or twelve men. She noticed there were swords that bore the seal of Rohan. It made her stomach turn. As they further entered the cavern, all eyes were on her. The two men shoved her toward a pallet, upon which a young man lay.

"His hand was crushed by a horse's hoof," Beorn murmured to her. Lothíriel figured there was nothing to do but kneel down and inspect the man. Indeed, his left hand was wrapped in crude linens and his skin was clammy with sweat. Bluish circles covered his eyelids as he slept fitfully.

"You've gone through an awful lot of trouble for this fellow," she muttered, lifting his hand gently.

"This fellow is my brother," Beorn growled. So it appeared even brutes had a little compassion. Lothíriel turned to face the leader of the Dunlendings.

"How long has it been since this occurred?" she asked.

"A day and a half."

"Long enough for the ill humors of the wound to spread," she murmured. She delicately unwrapped the flimsy bandages and was met with the stench of rotting flesh. With the linen removed, Lothíriel examined the remains of his hand. The palm was a mess of blood, skin and muscle and three of the five fingers were bent, cracked and useless. Bones protruded where was skin had been ripped away. The consistency of his hand was a sloppy disarray of flimsy, wrecked tissue and darkened skin.

"I'll need my pack. I hope you were sensible enough to bring that with me."

Beorn called for a man, who dropped the small leather bag Lothíriel kept her herbs and salves in. She rummaged through it and turned back to the injured man, inspecting his hand once more. Beorn watched her carefully, his expression guarded.

"Can you help him?"

"Yes," she answered slowly, setting his arm down. "But his hand will have to be removed." Beorn stared at her as though she'd told him wargs were harmless. She sighed in an exasperated fashion. "You asked me if I could help. I can, but not if you're going to restrict my actions. We have to get rid of this hand. It will do him no good in life and serves only to spread disease."

"And what do you purpose he do with one hand? Draw? A man with only one hand is useless to me."

"Is a brother with one hand useless to you as well?" she asked quietly. He turned his blue eyes on her and scowled. "He is not all together inadequate. He can still ride a horse, or hold a child. Certainly his life would not be over."

"His life in my service would be over," Beorn muttered, looking at his brother.

"And it appears that is all that matters." Lothíriel avoided the man's glare as she tied her hair back. "I'll need fresh hot water, a knife, and clean linens. The sooner the better. Oh, and I would like my guard brought here so I can tend to his injuries as well."

"Bossy wench, aren't you?" Beorn's grin returned as he ordered his men to do as she directed. Lothíriel decided it was best if she ignored that remark.

-o-

"My lady's never sewed a day in her life," Lady Iviel divulged to the King of Rohan, who chuckled. "Of course, we tried to teach her. But she was always slipping away to be with her brothers."

"She's fond of them."

"Quite." The woman smiled. They'd spent an hour talking the night before and resumed that morning after breakfast. It'd taken Éomer a while to get Ivriel comfortable with him, but she opened up to his warm smiles and quiet assurances. He'd learned a lot about his wife, her dislikes and fancies among them. He lamented not being able to ask Lothíriel these questions directly and hoped she wouldn't be upset with him or Lady Ivriel.

"And does my lady enjoy making mischief with her brothers, as my sister did?"

"Oh she was the naughtiest child," Ivriel answered with a smile. "But so lovely. She could charm you right into forgetting why you were angry."

"That sounds familiar," Éomer muttered and grinned. "My sister and wife are strikingly similar, Lady Ivriel. It's almost frightening."

"Certainly," the woman agreed. She was about to say something else when the door opened, light pouring into Meduseld. A guard strode quickly into the hall, bowing as he reached his monarch.

"Forgive me, my lord." The man looked agitated and disgruntled. Éomer waved his apology aside, eyebrows raised in question. Lady Ivriel stood and excused herself with a curtsy. The guard waited her to exit before he took a step toward the King. "Something has happened."

"Something?" Éomer stood, his heat beating loudly. "What something?"

"Her Highness' company has been broken," he hesitated. "A routine ride of the Mark found their camp. Her guards were slain and the horses, gone."

"What of the Queen? And Lord Elfhelm?" Éomer could scarce believe what he was hearing.

"Neither were found among the bodies." The man took a breath and proceeded. "The men who found this rode hard all night to inform us. They say the camp was destroyed. It looked to be the work of orcs."

"Or Dunlendings," Éomer snarled. "A pox on Elfhelm for convincing me to allow this. Ready my éored."

"But we do not know where the Queen is."

"Ready my éored," the King nearly yelled. The man bowed low and sprinted away. Éomer sat back down, staring at the table. This was madness. Complete madness. What would the Dunlendings want with Lothíriel? _Don't be stupid_, he chastised himself. _They want to continue their little game._ But it was no longer a game. Burning empty villages and barns was one thing. Abducting his wife and Marshall was quite another.

Éomer shuddered to think what Lothíriel might be suffering at the hands of the brutes. He swore silent vengeance against any man that touched her. He tried not to imagine what barbaric things they'd done or were doing to her and Elfhelm. He prayed that they'd somehow managed to escape the attack, though he doubted it.

"My lord?" He looked up to see the guard at the door. Standing, Éomer made sure his sword was on his person and followed the man out. His éored of twenty men was assembled before Meduseld. Two of the men belonging to the Mark that'd discovered the camp rode with them. Firefoot stood awaiting his master's hand. Mounting the horse, Éomer nodded to the Riddermark.

"It will take over a day to reach the site, my lord," one of the men said. Éomer nodded and they started off at a brisk trot.

"We have a lot of land to cover. And if there are any Dunlendings to be found, let them taste our swords for their offenses against Rohan and against the King. Forth Eorlingas!"

**A/N: Now would be a fabulous time for reviews. Comments on this or previous chapters? Suggestions for further chapters? I'm open to ideas and changes. Don't worry, due credit will be given to concepts used. But I'm at a fork in the creative road and reader's opinions would be super-great. Thanks again for the lovely support of my readers. You're all too kind.**


	18. The Bitter Taste of Appreciation

Chapter 18: The Bitter Taste of Appreciation

"Are you sure about this?" Beorn asked again, his expression skeptical. Had she been keeping count, this would've been his third time inquiring after her confidence.

"Why did you bring me here if all you seem to do is doubt my conviction?" Lothíriel retorted irritably. She felt the glower of his icy eyes as she rolled the wounded man's sleeve to his upper arm. "Removing his hand is necessary if you desire his survival," she explained slowly, hoping the measured length of her words would permeate Beorn's thick skull. She wasn't sure if it had the desired effect, for he simply slumped back on his heels.

"Is there anything else I can get you? A feather pillow and bath, perhaps?" he sneered as his men chuckled behind him. Lothíriel turned to him, her grey eyes catching his in a furious glare.

"I do not have to do this," she snapped. "I could leave him for dead just as you left my men. But I am doing my best to ensure his life is preserved. So it would be of great convenience if you would cease your rude remarks and do as I tell you."

Beorn kept his mouth shut and followed her orders. She could tell he did not enjoy being told what to do. Too bad. If he wanted her help, he'd have to deal with her rules. It's not as though she volunteered to do this. Well, not directly. Lothíriel indicated to Beorn that she would need the assistance of him and two of his men.

"Someone will have to hold him," she said. "He will thrash and scream. Make sure someone has his legs, because he's liable to kick. You," she pointed to Beorn, "will have to cut through the bone as I am not strong enough. Make sure the cut is swift and clean. It will be between the bone of his hand and his wrist." She took a breath. The knife had been sitting in the boiling water for many minutes to ensure it would burn cleanly through the muscle and bone. While Lothíriel had never actually participated in an amputation, she'd seen plenty. Hopefully her memory would transfer to her hands. She wanted this young man to live and she also wanted to prove herself to Beorn for Elfhelm's sake.

Not daring to think what would happen to either of them should she fail, Lothíriel directed the two Dunlendings, who held the young man's shoulders and ankles, waiting. She made sure the linens were within quick grasp as she tried to prepare herself mentally. She felt her teeth chatter softly though she couldn't tell if that was due to the cold or her growing apprehension. Elfhelm lay bound against the far wall of the cave, his eye watching her. She gave a quick nod to him and turned to Beorn, who was waiting on her instruction.

"This must happen quickly. There will hopefully be a fair amount of blood, meaning the ill humors have not spread beyond the injury." Beorn nodded and positioned himself opposite of her on the other side of his brother's arm, which was outstretched. Lothíriel knelt in the space between his arm and body, her back to the young man. He lay unconscious, breathing peacefully from an infusion she'd made of herbs in her pack.

Picking the knife's handle from the water, she saw the steam rise from the blade. Good. With a deep breath, Lothíriel proceeded, not daring to look at Beorn or Elfhelm until it was done. She held on to the injured man's forearm with one hand and pressed the blade to the skin below his wrist. The flesh sizzled and peeled away easily until she hit the bone. The young man twitched and Lothíriel realized this was the part she could not do. She motioned with her eyes for Beorn to take the knife, which he did gingerly. With a nod from Lothíriel, he sliced down.

The sound of steel grating and cutting bone was drowned by a pained wail. The two men behind her held Beorn's brother down as he began to thrash and convulse. Beorn did not hesitate in his task, seeming to ignore his brother's pained screams as he cut the hand off. Finally, it was done. The ruined limb fell like a weight, dark blood pooling around it. Lothíriel had the linens ready and wrapped them around his wrist and created a tourniquet.

The young man's screams diminished into whimpers, his agony written upon his face. Once his arm was fashioned with bandages, Lothíriel dipped a cloth into cool water and wiped the young man's sweaty brow. He moaned painfully in his sleep, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It calmed slowly as Lothíriel allowed him to inhale more of the infusion's steam, which pacified him. She now turned to Beorn, who was watching her intently.

"Bury the hand," she said wearily. He nodded and one of his men scooped the appendage from its place on the ground and disappeared into the darkness of the cave. "The linens must be burned the first chance you have." Her voice sounded distant to her ears as she stood and moved away from the pallet.

It was only then that Lothíriel realized the entirety of Beorn's company had witnessed the surgery and were completely silent, looking at her and Beorn's brother. She felt suddenly very tired. Her lids were heavy and she longed to lie down. She felt the chill of winter beneath her skin, having forgotten it in the intensity of her task.

"Once the bleeding has ceased, I can inspect the cut," she told no one in particular. She washed her bloody hands in a bucket of water one of the men had brought for her. After that, she cleaned the knife's blade and set it aside. She turned and nearly bumped into the blue eyed Dunlending as they stood in relative solitude near the back of the cave.

"Thank you," Beorn murmured quietly. She could see it was difficult for him to tell her this and she despaired that she was not in a mood to take advantage of his discomfiture. She shrugged and turned away. She still had to attend to Elfhelm. She walked to him, bringing her pack with her. Knowing it was forbidden for her to remove his bonds, Lothíriel focused on his face. She cleaned the wounds gently, telling him that soon enough he would be in the Golden Hall drinking ale and poking fun at Gamling.

"That lout always drinks more than his fill," the young Marshall rasped with a difficult smile. Lothíriel ignored the glances given to them by a few of the Dunlendings as she returned the smile.

"Indeed." She admired his reserve, aware of the pain he must be feeling, and bearing it with firm resolve. A true warrior of the Mark. Éomer would be pleased, though unsurprised she guessed. After all, they'd been friends since childhood.

"But I would see first that these brutes be slain for what they have put you through." His eyes (the swollen one a little less so) glared over her shoulder at the Dunlendings, who murmured together quietly near Beorn's brother.

"For what they have done to your men," she corrected mournfully, looking at the ground. With an irritated sigh, Lothíriel returned her gaze to Elfhelm. How dare she profess frailty and exhaustion when he remained strong for her? She gave him a gentle smile before standing. Beorn approached her again, his blue eyes regarding her with a mildness she'd thought impossible.

"You will sleep there," he indicated to a bedroll laid against the curve of the cave, far from the entrance. Beorn's brother lay to her left and Beorn himself was situated to her right. Strategic planning, she was certain. She was far too tired to argue so she followed him to the spot. Sitting down, Lothíriel glanced at him for a moment. He stared down at her, expression unreadable until she lay down and faced away from him.

She stared at the stone wall, her body and mind sore with the events. They were so far into the cave that she didn't know if it was day or night. But she knew it was still winter because she was chilled to the bone. She longed to be the warm bed in Edoras, her husband sleeping peacefully beside her. She wondered, with rising panic, what he would think if he knew she'd helped the enemy.

She prayed Beorn would be good to his word and release her and Elfhelm once he was certain his brother would survive. Lothíriel feared an encounter with the Riddermark and the Dunlendings. She realized, with a twinge of shame, that she feared it because she'd have to witness it. But also because she knew Beorn's brother wouldn't have a chance. The other Dunlendings, however, were more than capable in the art of murder. Lothíriel wanted no more Rohirric blood shed and certainly not on her account. With those thoughts, she drifted into a dreamless, cold sleep.


	19. The Toil of Kings

**A/N: I was tired; so I forgot to add Éomer's POV to the previous chapter, boo on me. So he's got his very own chapter. Twist and shout! Sidebar – as a writer, I'd really appreciate for my readers to give me a hint that what I'm writing is at least mediocre. And to everyone who has reviewed, I love you to bits! I'm writing for y'all. Forth Eorlingas and Toaster Strudels! S**

Chapter 19: The Toil of Kings

_Complete madness_. Éomer repeated those words in his head as a buffer to the darker thoughts that threatened to edge their way in. he and his company had been riding hours and the skies had only just turned charcoal with rain. It fell in freezing ropes, stinging the skin and blurring vision. Both horses and riders were quite used to this weather, but it did not make the mission easier.

What could the Dunlendings want with Lothíriel and Elfhelm? Oh, the possibilities. Éomer refused to allow the options to present themselves, certain that he would take vengeance against them for this and other crimes. But what if it was a ransom? What could they want? Complete immunity from Rohirric attacks and a seat in the Golden Hall. Éomer almost snorted at the notion, but the seriousness of the situation prevented it.

"My lord!" Éomer rode toward one of his men, who was pointing at something. Dismounting into the wet mud, Éomer squinted against the rain to see what the soldier was pointing at. It was a shiny flash in the dull light. Crouching down, the young King realized it was the sword he'd given his wife before she left. It looked as though it'd slipped from the saddle, as some of the buckles were still looped around the hilt.

Éomer swore into the rain, picking it up. There was no blood on it, which could be a good or bad thing. Alerted by the call of another man, Éomer looked up to see a shadowy figure near the outcropping of rocks. It was a horse. He moved toward it on foot, slowly and deliberately so as not to scare the poor wet beast. It was Lothíriel's Dergh. He looked at Éomer with fright and agitation in his watery eyes. Allowing Éomer to approach him, the horse's curiosity got the better of his apprehension and he extended his nose toward the man, searching for a treat. Éomer smiled slightly, producing a hardened molasses square from his pocket to offer Dergh. Pleased with this gift, the horse let the King run his hand across his wet coat as he chewed contentedly.

Éomer saw that the saddle had fallen to the side and now hung uncomfortably on the horse's flank. He released the girth and the tack fell into the mud. Dergh tossed his head appreciatively and Éomer patted his neck.

"Where is she?" he whispered, glancing back to his éored. "Any tracks have been destroyed with the rain," he said loudly, not bothering to mask the frustration in his voice. "Where was the camp?"

"Over here, my lord." Éomer followed the man on foot, his horse and Dergh in his shadow quietly. The King of Rohan suppressed an enraged cry when he saw the bodies of his men strewn about the place, limbs hacked.

"This savagery will not be forgotten," he seethed, crouching near one of the slain men. The poor lad couldn't have been older than twenty. The rain mixed with the sweat on Éomer's face and just might've camouflaged the tears of anger and despair from his men as he turned away from them.

"It will be easier to search for the Queen and Lord Elfhelm once this storm passes," a mounted guard said. "Let us retire to the rock's caves, my lord."

Éomer nodded and walked toward one of the outcropping of monolithic stones. They found one with suitable depth for the horses and men alike. It was not deep, but it would keep them dry. Tending to the beasts, the company was hauntingly silent, each within his own thoughts. Most were probably wondering at the rage of their King, should they find the Dunlendings.

The man himself had wiped any trace of tears from his face and held a grim expression. It was almost like the days of old, when Théoden would send him to pursue a miscreant band of Dunlendings or orcs. Except this time, Éomer was King. And he was in search of those who'd taken his wife from him. he wasn't entirely sure if what he felt for Lothíriel was love, but didn't bother to analyze it. All he knew was that he wanted her safe and in his arms. And he wanted those who'd made her suffer to pay their dues.

The morning broke cold and desolate. The rain had stopped a few hours before dawn. Éomer should know, he was awake for most of the night, staring at the ceiling of rock. They returned to the site of massacre with severe determination. After collecting and naming the bodies, the éored tried to make sense of the scene.

"The Dunlendings surrounded them," Éomer repeated. One of his men had come to that conclusion an hour before, but it seemed appropriate to remind anyone who'd forgotten. The warriors discussed among themselves the various theories.

"Do you suppose it was deliberate? Was this a planned attack?"

"How could it have been?"

"Perhaps they were following the Lady's company out of Edoras."

"Could they've known about the letter?"

"Where did that messenger say he was from?" all eyes turned to Éomer, who was looking at the western horizon, his expression troubled.

"A northern village, my lord."

"Yes, but which one?"

"The magistrate's name was Deor. The village of Mirais, if I am correct."

"We haven't heard from them in years," Éomer mused. "This is all very strange. I don't trust the source. What was the name of that messenger?"

"Ceorl, my lord."

"Brego, take your men further north. Find this village and Ceorl. When you do, bring him to me." Brego bowed to his King and gathered his group.

"My lord, if the Dunlendings do have the Queen and Lord Elfhelm in captivity, I do not suppose they've gone too far. Especially not with the rain last night."

"They have no horses," another soldier noted, studying prints in the mud that escaped the rain. "On foot. Certainly they could not be many leagues away."

"Indeed," Éomer nodded. "They are probably using the rock caves for protection and hiding. Comb the valley," he said with a grim voice. "If you are correct, they should still be within the area."


	20. And Suffering of Queens

**A/N: Whoa now! Twenty chapters and Twizzlers for everyone! This is great. I've never written a twenty-chapter fanfic. Actually, I've never written a fanfic before. This is super! Anyway, sorry for the egregious delay. ~ S**

Chapter 20: The Suffering of Queens

"Wake up." Lothíriel felt a boot kick her gently in the back. Rolling to the side, she was met with Beorn's cornflower eyes, which regarded her with an emotion she couldn't place. He was inches from her, leaning over her bed. She could hear the other men murmuring quietly behind him.

"My brother is awake," the leader of the Dunlendings stated, moving back so she could get up. Her muscles were either extremely sore or numb. Her hair was in disarray and there was dirt and soot on her skin. Certainly she looked more like a wraith queen than Rohan's monarch. She ignored the image she must've presented to them because it didn't matter.

She knelt beside Beorn's brother, whose name was Eofor. He looked much better, his eyes open and skin cool. His eyes were the same color as his brother's though warmer. He smiled with cracked lips and she guessed he was about seventeen. His hair was dark and long, the faint stubble across his chin giving him the appearance of being older.

"Good morning," she said politely. She noticed someone had changed his bandage while she slept. She gently unwrapped the linen. Eofor winced.

"Are you an Elf?" the young man's voice was strained and faltering in Rohirric.

"No," she replied with an inescapable smile. She cleaned the wound quickly, noting how he tried to remain stoic. She marveled at tolerance of the young man (though she imagined he was really still a boy, made old by experience). "But I could probably introduce you to one." He smiled back at her, his eyes narrowed with pain. She cleaned the end of his arm and rewrapped it. He thanked her and Lothíriel found herself far more tolerant of this one, rather than his brother.

Said man observed her with a dour expression, leaning against the stone, smoking a pipe. Lothíriel glared at him and he stared back her with equal intensity. His assertive nature reminded her of Éomer. But then, her husband was not one to capture Queens and blackmail them into helping him. Minor difference. Beorn relented to her silent admonishment and doused the pipe.

She was not allowed to see to Elfhelm, but she could see that he would be alright. His external injuries seemed minor. She worried at broken bones and internal damage, but there was nothing to do about that now. He offered her a gentle reassurance with his eyes across the cave. She was wished she could find the strength to save the both of them, but she wasn't entirely sure she possessed such valor.

The hours passed without time. Lothíriel didn't know how long they'd been gone and she had no idea if it was day or night. Beorn had allowed her to relieve herself outside, but she'd been blindfolded and escorted by two guards. They gave her relative privacy and she was permitted to remove the blindfold, though she didn't need it. She didn't recognize the place at all. It was all rocks and scraggly ground. She saw the sun was hidden by clouds but guessed it was twilight. Once she'd finished, the blindfold was returned and she was escorted back.

As they reached the hollowed circle in the cave and her blindfold was taken off, Lothíriel listened to the men speak. Kneeling beside Eofor, she wiped his brow, glancing every now and again to the circle of men. Eofor was listening as well, his expression troubled. Lothíriel couldn't understand their dialect but it sounded urgent. Beorn looked distressed and he shot her a glare. He spoke brusquely to his men, waving an arm in a horizontal sweep to indicate the cave. A Dunlending responded quickly and sharply, pointing at Lothíriel and raising his voice. Beorn reprimanded him, also gesturing to the Queen. After a moment of silence, he gave directions. The same fellow began a question, to which Beorn cut him off sharply. The man bowed and the cave was emptied of Dunlendings.

"Morgil says your King has been spotted south of this place," Eofor murmured to her. "My brother sent them to make sure the party does not find us."

Panic rose in Lothíriel's chest as the prospect of a confrontation became quite real. Her heartbeat quickened and she sat back heavily on her heels, seeing bloodshed before her eyes. What if Éomer was killed? What if the Dunlendings slew the lot of them? What if…? A hand wrapped around hers, bringing her back to reality. Eofor was grasping her hand in his, his expression concerned.

"My lady?" he asked softly. Lothíriel forced a smile and patted his hand. He lay back against the pallet and she resumed her task. She was mildly surprised with Eofor's kindness toward her, given the contempt she'd been met with from the other Dunlendings. Perhaps it was his age.

"You need to rest," she said with a nod. He rolled his blue eyes to the ceiling, a lopsided grin on his lips. "Don't you give me that face," she scolded in a good-natured tone. "Now to sleep!" Eofor fell back against the pallet with an indignant but playful thud. But he did close his eyes and after a moment, his breaths deepened. The young man had suffered much in these days and could not be made to stay awake longer than necessary.

Lothíriel scooted away from him, cleaning the extra bandages in the small cistern of warm water. She glanced up at Elfhelm, who was bound and gagged in a painful niche. His eyes were closed and it seemed he was conserving his strength. She heard Eofor shift on his bed before resuming a gentle snore. She smiled to herself, the young Dunlending suddenly reminding her of her brothers.

"You shouldn't treat him like a child," Beorn said quietly. He was sitting across from her, his knees drawn up. He leaned against the stone, looking at her between the peaks of his knees, his forearms resting on their surface. He looked utterly relaxed, the countenance of a lounging predator. At the slightest move, he could spring to action, taking down anything in his path.

"He is," she replied, glancing back at the younger brother.

"No, my lady. He is not."

"What would you have me treat him as?" she asked softly. Beorn's eyes met hers as she washed. She held his gaze steadily, not willing to let him dominate her with his words and silent authority. "Would you rather I treat him like some barbarian, unfeeling and cold? Tell him to ignore the pain and forge ahead? You and I both know that kind of talk could get him killed."

"It hasn't," he murmured.

"Yet." She stopped washing, sitting back on her heels to look at him. "Who put such loathing in your hearts?"

"You might ask your King," he answered after a moment. She realized she was sitting only a pace or two from him. His blue eyes bore into her like icicles, remorseless and frozen. "It was his uncle's son who butchered my mother and sister. It was his sword that stole the life from boy twice before his time."

Lothíriel tilted her head slightly, black curls draping her shoulder as she listened. The bitterness in his voice was not lost on her. But neither was the pain.

"If you expect me to believe you are not guilty of similar acts, then –"

"I have killed no one's wife, nor sister or daughter!" he exclaimed, but lowered his voice. Eofor and Elfhelm slept on. Beorn moved toward her, until he was inches from her face. She could almost taste the earth and sweat on his skin but refused to avert her eyes.

"Perhaps not," she replied at length. "But you have killed someone's husband, brother and son. You cannot deny that." She could tell he was going to berate her for that comment, but she didn't give him the chance. "This is a war torn country. I am not ignorant of that. All the same, it seems peace could be had."

"Tell that to your husband," he growled. But this time, it was Beorn who broke the gaze, staring irresolutely at the ground.

"He is too pigheaded to accept the thought, just like you. But between you two, I do not doubt an understanding could be had. An alliance, no. But accord for all your years of bitter fighting would be welcomed. You and my husband have the potential to stop this."

"Somehow I think it is you who would put the words in our mouths," he murmured. He looked at her again. She noted the way his visage was centered on his eyes, pools of azure gleaming and watching. He was very much in similar appearances of King Elessar, though Beorn seemed younger. The Dunlending shifted, moving his head closer to hers. Lothíriel found herself immobile. His fingers wound around a lock of hair as he maintained her gaze steadily.

"Beorn." She spoke softly as he moved closer still. "Do not give me reason to call you a barbarian," she whispered hesitantly, closing her eyes. She felt his gentle pressure on her hair release and the warmth emanating from his body disappeared. When she opened her eyes, he was standing several paces away, glaring at the negative space between them.

Lothíriel felt an unfamiliar and indescribable pressure in her neck, as if her heart had been caught between her chest and mouth. The back of her eyes stung with tears that she did not let fall. What was the matter with him? How dare he think he could be congenial to her and then turn around and seduce her? She looked up, about to give him what-for when she found he was upset with himself. His expression had darkened and she could almost see the self loathing leak from his skin.

"Get up," he muttered tightly. She stared at him, bemused and concerned. "Stand up, curse you!" She stood unsteadily. Elfhelm and Eofor roused at the sound of Beorn's voice, the latter about to ask a question, which his brother silenced. The sound of horses, though distant, could be heard through the long opening of the cave. Éomer was here.

"Brother, you must get up as well." Beorn was buckling his sword to him, tossing the order over his shoulder. Eofor stood and Lothíriel immediately moved to help him. He thanked her with his eyes and pulled his belt and scabbard from the ground. Lothíriel did not offer to assist him in putting it on, for it meant that she would have sentenced a rider of the Mark to injury or death. Beorn helped his brother and they doused the torches.

Lothíriel felt a hand on her wrist and she was tugged toward the dim light of the mouth of the cave. She was being led by Beorn and she heard Eofor behind her. She paused, glancing around in the relative darkness.

"But –"

"There is no time for him," Beorn hissed in her ear, pulling her along. So they exited the cave, leaving Elfhelm behind.

The grey sky, though bleak, was bright and its intensity caused dots to impede Lothíriel's vision as she was hauled roughly around. She tripped on the wet ground, listening to the sounds of horses as they neared. Seeing there was nothing for her to do, Lothíriel allowed Beorn to drag her around, Eofor bringing up the back. It all looked the same for her, but Beorn seemed to have an idea. He stopped suddenly, turning to his brother.

"Go east," he indicated a jerk of his head. "Circle around them. We'll meet you at the stone pass." Eofor looked at him, pupils dilated. But within a second, he nodded and sprinted away. Lothíriel turned on Beorn.

"You've sent him to his death! Straight into the path of my men!"

"Sacrifices," Beorn muttered, yanking on her wrist as he started moving again. "And if you're wise, my lady, you will not test my patience."

Lothíriel offered a silent prayer for Eofor, for she knew the Riddermark would show him no mercy. She longed for the sword Éomer had given her. The she remembered the dagger in her boot, scowling deeply at her own stupidity. Why hadn't she recalled that earlier? She felt it now, rubbing gently against her skin as they tore around the rocks and stones. Well she would make its presence known soon enough, or she'd be just as doomed as Beorn's brother.


	21. Lost and Found

Chapter 21: Lost and Found

Whatever possessed him to drag that sharp-tongued girl along was probably the same thing that influenced his tolerance of her. She was only slowing him down and irritated him with her questions. At least she had the sense not to scream like a gutted pig. He knew women had that propensity.

Beorn's grip on her wrist was tight because he could not afford to chase after her if she broke free. Her skin beneath his was soft and smooth, not at all unwelcoming. It was a fool's choice to abduct her. He'd been willing to leave Eofor to his misfortune, the stupid boy. If he couldn't stay on a horse, he deserved to have his hand smashed by unmerciful hooves. But his men would not quiet and went on and on about healing the lad. Finally, Beorn relented and allowed his men to devise a slapdash plan that involved capturing the Queen of Rohan.

While her skills were impressive, he found her a complex problem he was in no mood to deal with. On one hand, Beorn now held in relative captivity the Queen of his enemy. On the other, it meant the King would not stop until he found her. But it had been the will of his men that brought her here. He had to admit, it was a dramatic plan, sending that fellow from the north with a 'letter.'

_How foolish of you, Éomer_, Beorn thought smugly. _You should have been more protective of your prize. _

And now she was his. Well, she was under his control. Though he would never admit it to her or his men, he was pleased that his brother had a chance to survive. The lives they led were arduous and often required sacrifices of the most painful type. Had not Beorn's own father left his young sons to brave the bitter elements while fleeing the Riddermark so many years ago? Indeed, Beorn and Eofor grew up in a harsh world, one the likes of Éomer would never know. But it was this beautiful young Queen who'd given him hope. Given Eofor hope. But that angered Beorn. Men like him could not rely on hope. Not in this lifetime. She was putting ideas into their heads. Thoughts of comfort and trust. Those were dangerous and Beorn decided the Queen could become more of an enemy than Éomer without realizing it.

She'd worked her magic on his brother, but she was more trouble than she was worth. And now he had the King on his tail. Still, Beorn couldn't rationalize why he'd brought her. There was something about the woman that both irked and intrigued him. His brother had mistaken her for an Elf, but Beorn could see she was no such thing. She wasn't nearly arrogant or vain enough. But she was a pain.

He paused, listening to the sound of horses fading into the distance. They were not being pursued. Beorn felt the coldness seep into his very bones and he let out a heavy, smoky breath. The Queen beside him was panting lightly, her grey eyes narrowed with exertion. Leaning against the tall monument of stone, Beorn looked at her.

The thick riding dress was torn and muddied. Beneath, the skirts of brown appeared to only provide minimal warmth. Despite the dirt on her face, the Queen held an air of elegance foreign to a man like him. Her bone structure hinted at Elven heritage, with high cheekbones, arching brows and a strong jaw line. Her complexion was pale without being sickly. A thick mane of black curls, like serpents, veiled her neck. Éomer was a lucky man, it would seem.

"Do you plan to run forever?" she asked quietly. Her voice was accented, having hailed from Gondor. There was a quality to her voice that calmed him and offered him something beyond this dank existence.

"If I have to," he answered, looking away. He wasn't sure where he was running or why he'd taken her with him. He didn't worry about the Rohirric man abandoned in the cave. He was bound and gagged. Even if Éomer did somehow find him, Beorn didn't have to worry about the man telling his King anything important.

"Why did you send Eofor away?"

"I had to."

"Why bring me?"

"I had to."

"Have you a plan?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but yes," he snapped, knowing it was not the truth. It was evident she knew it too. She watched him with those grey eyes that seemed to look into his very soul. In all his years, Beorn had never met such an insufferable, beautiful, confounding, captivating woman and he found himself wanting to know more about her. To spend more time in her company.

Initially he felt wonderful satisfaction for capturing such a valuable pawn in this war against the Rohirrim. But there was a sense of longing as he looked at her. He would never taste her, never hold her, never know her touch. She was royalty. He was scum. In that way, he was more jealous of Éomer than ever. But it was not Éomer, King of Rohan, who held this woman's company now. It was Beorn.

"I have done as you asked of me. Your brother will be fine, as long as the bandages are changed and the skin is allowed to heal." She spoke to him, but her eyes were on the sky. "Will you be true to your promise and let me go now?"

"I believe I said I would allow you to return home," he reminded her. "If you so please, you may go." She looked at him, eyebrows raised. Clearly she hadn't anticipated him keeping his word. Neither had he. She turned away from him, contemplating a path. She began to retrace her steps, leaving Beorn leaning against the rock.

"My lady?" she paused, offering her profile as she waited for him to speak again. "Thank you."

She resumed walking, navigating the wet, muddy terrain with the awkwardness of unfamiliarity. Beorn looked away, refusing to watch her disappear. He feared failure. Allowing her to heal Eofor would ultimately destroy him. His men were either dead or in the process of killing the Riddermark. And for what? A woman he could never have. It was incredibly foolish of him to put his men in this situation. They had created such a perfect plan to irritate Éomer into ignoring his people and now it was jeprodized by this woman.

Beorn shook himself of his thoughts as the sound of horses grew closer. The Queen's figure halted, listening. He could run her down and demand the Rohirrim cease the murder of the Dunlendings. He could force Éomer to give him what he wanted. But watching her, he realized that it would be pointless. He would be killed. So he crept away on silent feet, sending a quiet promise into the cold air.

"By my life, Queen of Rohan, we will see each other again."

-o-

Éomer pulled Firefoot to a halt, his sword bloody. They'd been met by Dunlendings – an abnormal move. Usually the brutes did their mischief and slunk away. But these men charged his éored full force, as if it were their final fight. The Riddermark showed them no mercy, until Éomer stopped them. If these men had Lothíriel, killing them would keep him from finding her. Regardless, none of the men talked, even when threatened with their lives. He respected and cursed their loyalty.

"My lord!" Éomer turned in the saddle to see a Rohirric man gesturing to his King. Firefoot trotted toward the man. He was pointing at something in the valley of rocks. A figure was struggling against the slippery, difficult ground to ascend the hill. Éomer recognized the riding dress and touched his horse's flank. The beast responded knowingly, making his way down to Lothíriel.

She stopped and waited for him to reach her. Éomer dismounted before Firefoot had stopped, taking his wife by the shoulders, searching her face. Her skin was smudged with dirt and her dress was wet, but she seemed alright. She smiled slightly and Éomer felt his heart warm. He hadn't realized how much fear lurked within him until he saw her face. He couldn't imagine what he'd done if he hadn't found him.

"Thank Bema you're alive," he blabbered. "We must get you back to Edoras at once." He was in the process of picking her up and lifting her into the saddle, but she was protesting, slapping lightly at his hands. He stepped back, perplexed.

"I'm capable of getting on the horse myself," she muttered indignantly. "And first, we must fetch Elfhelm."

"Elfhelm?" Éomer frowned, eyebrows knitting with doubtful surprise. "I thought surely he was slain."

"It is not so," his wife replied, shaking her head. "They left him in the cave. Come, I will explain later. But he is need of food and water, I'll bet, after all this time."

"Lothíriel." The Queen turned to look at her husband. He stepped toward her, placing a hand on the side of her cheek. "I… I am glad you are well. I was worried… the Dunlendings are not known for their hospitality… I thought, perhaps… Well I didn't know for certain. I mean you –"

"I missed you," she said with a smile. She took his hand in hers, abolishing the awkwardness that threatened to destroy his reserve. He couldn't muster a smile to return, but he squeezed her hand gently in response. Perhaps things would be alright in the end.

**A/N: I'm really sorry for the delay. I tried to work from a different POV, as requested, so hopefully that didn't disappoint. Thank you to Efia-an for her pointers on the previous chapter. I tried to explain some of the confusing bits in the last few chapters. If I haven't, please let me know so I can fix it, especially in terms of Éomer (if he seems out of character). Thanks for your support, guys! I'm writing for you! S**


	22. Confidence and Comfort

Chapter 22: Confidence and Comfort

She didn't know why he'd let her go. She'd been forced to ignore her initial surprise and move on with her life. But in retrospect, she believed she would die by his hand. Recalling the almost painful expression on his face, she winced inwardly. There were numerous alternatives to that outcome, most of which ended in tragedy. How could she have escaped with barely a scrape and chill?

She led Éomer and his men to Elfhelm. It'd taken her a half hour to locate the correct monolith with the cave, but when she did they were greeted with a very tired but very grateful Elfhelm. Lothíriel found herself too exhausted to ride Dergh back to Edoras alone, so she rode in front of Éomer and Elfhelm rode Dergh (who was surprisingly placid). Her husband was silent for most of the ride, his body tense and erect behind her.

Lothíriel found herself hoping Eofor had survived. Still a boy, he did not deserve the fate he suffered. She was angry with Beorn for treating his brother with such flippancy. The man was a mystery to her. First, he abducts her and demands she help his brother. The next moment he's sending the lad into battle with only one hand. What kind of man was Beorn? Her first response might be 'barbaric.' But his nature seemed far too intricate to be limited to one word.

The hours passed as if she were watching them from a mirror. She felt the cold, but it didn't bother her. She tasted hunger, but it didn't perturb her. They stopped to rest on her and Elfhelm's account, which she appreciated. But Lothíriel felt utterly detached. Éomer spoke quietly with his men while they took a moment of respite. When they set off again, he did not speak to her. But that was alright. She didn't have anything to say.

They reached Edoras well after sunset. The Queen was greeted with flowers and warm returns, but she could only smile and thank. Supper had been prepared, but no one seemed hungry enough to eat in the presence of each other. Lothíriel sat in their room, running a brush through her hair. She was washed and clean, but she couldn't shake the cold from her skin. The warmth of the nightdress gave little comfort. She watched the moon from the window as the brush slid through black curls, pausing every now and again to work free a tangle.

Éomer and his men were in council. She hadn't seen him since he'd left her in the care of Lady Berewyn and Ivriel many hours ago. She worried at his disposition. Never had she seen such hate and anger in his usually calm eyes. Beorn would be pleased.

The door opened tiredly and Éomer entered the chamber. Shutting the door behind him, he sighed heavily. Lothíriel stood, hesitating to walk toward him. He looked awful. The armor hadn't been removed, nor the sword and his face was sweat and dirt covered. The fatigue in his eyes was mirrored in his unsteady movements. He looked at her slowly and took a step forward, before collapsing to his knees. She was beside him on the floor, unsure of what to do. His shoulders shook with what appeared to be infuriated sobs. His fists were clenched, biting into the ground harshly.

Lothíriel placed one hand over his. Éomer's body stiffened at her touch and he raised his eyes to look at her. His eyes were red, but there were no tears on his cheeks. No, he was angry.

"Did they hurt you?" his voice was terse and hoarse. He was looking beyond her, his expression unyielding in emotion.

"No," she answered. "I am fine, I promise."

"How dare they do this to me," he murmured, sitting back. Lothíriel was at a loss. She didn't know how to comfort him, or if he even wanted comfort. But he looked at her, his eyes wide with realization. "I've been so self involved - only thinking of myself. Surely it must have been awful for you! Were you bound?"

"No," she repeated. She scooted closer to him, trying to discern his temperament. "Éomer, please. Take off your armor and come to bed."

"I'll kill them," he muttered, gazing at the ground. Lothíriel frowned and took his hands. He didn't look at her, his visage troubled. So she released his hands and wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. She could feel him tense beneath and then relax. His hands held her waist as she stretched forward to hold him. Éomer's breathing deepened and she thought he might be weeping.

She pulled away slowly and stood. He followed suit and she began to remove the armor, piece by piece. He helped her and when he was free of it, he claimed her lips. Lothíriel realized this was what she'd been looking forward to since the moment Éomer had found. His hands wound through her hair and he trailed his lips across her jaw, slowly kissing her neck. Lothíriel dipped her head back, giving him further access to her skin.

"I'll never let them touch you again," Éomer whispered against her. Lothíriel felt the heat from his body and guided his lips back to hers. His hands slipped beneath the dress, drawing it from her with ease. She yielded to his touch, finding comfort and strength in his arms. It may not be love, but it was the closest thing to it Lothíriel had ever felt.

-o-

He watched her sleep, peaceful and beautiful in the soft light of the moon. They'd made slow, amorous love and he now felt complete. The fear he'd experienced when he discovered her abduction had taken hold of him so that his very morals were questioned. It was a good thing she and Elfhelm had been found, else his men would be driven mad. But it was Lothíriel who'd removed that fear and replaced it with something better. Warmer. More consoling.

Her eyes opened slowly, grey irises settling on his face. Her countenance shifted from calm to concerned. She sat up slightly, resting on her elbow as he was, her brows furrowed gently.

"What is it?" she asked quietly. "You should sleep."

"You're probably right," he replied with a smile. She watched him carefully, not ready to believe his words. "But every time I slip into the chains of sleep, I worry you are no longer beside me."

Lothíriel said nothing, her eyes downcast. Éomer lifted her chin gently with a finger so she could see the assurance in his face.

"I was scared." He admitted after a moment. She waited patiently as he collected his thoughts enough to tell her the things he could barely tell himself. "I have… So many have died. So many close to me. It seems, perhaps, that this line of Kings are blessed as rulers and cursed as men."

"What do you mean?"

"This alliance, between Gondor and Rohan, is purely political. That is, I would never force you to stay with me if you found it so unbearable. We are at least similar minded enough to tolerate one another. But you must understand, taking you as my wife also meant allowing a part of me to be threatened. No matter how many times I watch death claim my friends and family, it will always be painful. It will always create a wall within me. And I fear allowing the chance for such a wall to be built if I were to lose you."

"I see," she said after a moment. "I have not, on any scale, experienced the kind of loss you have. And I do not think I could survive and persevere as you are."

"I thought, certainly, that I had lost you. And that terrified me." He stopped, looking down at the sheets. Lothíriel placed her hand on his cheek, her fingertips gentle against skin. She did not smile, her expression was serene and it gave him hope.

"I am here," she murmured, kissing him. "It's harder than it seems to get rid of me."

He smiled and lowered her back to the pillow, their lips meeting again. He felt strong and he felt loved. Perhaps it was not the same love that his sister and her husband had, but it was enough for a man like Éomer. This marriage may not have been born from their love, but he was confident that they were going to make it work.


	23. Arrival

Chapter 23: Arrival

Lothíriel watched the spring sun rise slowly. Winter had been harsh, but the fatalities were lower than expected. This chilly morning was languid in its greeting, reminding the Queen of lazy days spent lying in the sand listening to the ocean. Her childhood had been something of luxury and comfort. Rarely had she experienced pain or suffering. But her father made it his duty to educate his daughter about the world. She was taught the history of her land and people so she would not live in ignorance. As a child she'd been feisty but quiet, taking her brothers' lead. Now, as a woman, she was reserved and patient, unafraid to speak her mind but conscious of others' feelings.

Smoothing the bedspread down, Lothíriel glanced around the room that would house her brother, Elphir and his son. The excitement in her heart swelled when she thought of her eldest brother, whom she loved dearly. She longed to see his son, Alphros, who was ten. Elphir's wife, Firiel, was heavy with their second child and unable to make the journey to Edoras.

Lothíriel placed a hand on her own belly, which was still flat. She wondered if she had been mistaken. Perhaps she was not pregnant. But she'd missed her monthly flow. She'd been told that sometimes happens and does not always indicate pregnancy. Lothíriel hoped – prayed – she was with a child. Although he never said a word about it, she knew Éomer longed for a baby. She did too. And the seasons were turning. She would have to conceive soon or she would be labeled barren. She could not bear to disappoint her husband thusly.

"My Lady Queen," a servant poked her head in. Lothíriel turned and smiled. "Your brother is here."

Following the girl, Lothíriel felt her heartbeat quicken with anticipation. Tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear, the Queen of Rohan took a deep breath and stepped into the cold morning light.

Her brother stood beside his horse, an enormously foolish grin on his handsome face as he watched his little sister fly down the steps and into his arms. Although the people of Rohan restrained themselves from such shows of intimacy, Elphir swung his sister around and laughed. She grinned as he put her down.

"I'm still a head taller than you, little Lothi," he teased. She clouted him gently on the arm with a smile. Before she could offer a retort about the size of his intelligence, a ten year old boy slipped off his pony and was running at breakneck speed toward the Queen. She scooped him up and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Valar protect us all," she breathed, laughing. "You're bigger than last time."

"Mother says I'm to be a giant," the little boy exclaimed eagerly.

"Did she now? Well make sure to pat your father on the head when you grow taller than him."

She put the boy down and became increasingly aware of the eyes that watched the trio. The Rohirrim was still getting used to their Queen's physical means of affection and this was awkward for them.

"There he is." Elphir's voice broke Lothíriel of her reverie. She turned to see Éomer coming down the steps of Meduseld. He offered a slight smile to his brother-in-law and grasped his forearm in a warrior's greeting.

"Welcome," the King said congenially. He bent down to the same salutation to his nephew, who received it gladly.

"My lord, this is Prince Alphros of Dol Amroth," Lothíriel introduced.

"Well met, young sir," Éomer said with a grin as he stood up. "I trust your journey was uneventful."

"Drearily so," Elphir replied. "Although I know your land to be beautiful beneath all this snow and cold."

"It should thaw soon," the King stated as they walked up the steps. Lothíriel grasped her nephew's hand as he made his way toward the Hall of the Kings. The boy was in awe at the majesty of the place, just as Lothíriel had been. Elphir and his men sat down at the table for food. Lothíriel sat beside her husband and smiled at Alphros beside her.

Breakfast offered congenial pleasantries between the two kingdoms. Elphir informed Éomer and Lothíriel of the trade market in Dol Amroth, as well as the happenings of King Aragorn and his wife. Éomer explained how he planned to restore Rohan with the use of crops and herding.

Lothíriel enjoyed their easy banter and was pleased at the camaraderie between her husband and brother. She longed to speak to Elphir privately, however, for she noticed shadows beneath his words. Something was bothering him and she intended to find out.

**A/N: Short chapter, long wait. It boils down to me being a busy loser. I'm really sorry folks. There should be a steady update. Thanks to Estel la Rodeuse for the ideas!**

**S**


	24. Quarrel

Chapter 24: Quarrels

"You wanted to see me?" Lothíriel turned to see her brother leaning on against the arched door frame. She smiled as he came to join her on the balcony overlooking the stable. They stood in a comfortable silence, their breath issuing in white steam. Elphir cast a sidelong glance at his sister, her eyes on the countryside below.

"Things are well at home?" she asked after a moment. Elphir knew that was not the question she was really asking and chose to get to heart of the matter.

"There is talk of your husband's… problems."

"Problems?" Lothíriel faced him, grey eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Yes." Elphir glanced down, the toe of his boot digging an imaginary hole in the stone. "With bands of orcs fanning out, leaderless and chaotic, and these vagrants King Aragorn has mentioned roaming Rohan, it would seem that Éomer could use some assistance."

"He will never agree to that," his sister answered.

"Certainly not if I were to suggest it."

"Elphir, he is a proud man," Lothíriel replied cautiously, trying not to agree to something before knowing what it is.

"I know. But perhaps you could persuade him."

"There is something you are not telling me."

"You know me too well," her brother mumbled before taking a deep breath. "Rohan is the most vulnerable of the kingdoms of men. Gondor was heavily damaged, but with Lord Aragorn, no brute would challenge it. The Easterlings are fighting amongst themselves and I doubt it will be long before they reconcile and come to settle their score with the West. Between orcs and these wild men – "

"Dunlendings."

"Er, yes. Anyway, Lord Aragorn seeks to offer the assistance in this time of peril. Certainly Father would send our soldiers as well. As would Prince Faramir."

Lothíriel studied her brother, noting the lines in his face that had not been so prominent when last she saw him. Indeed, he had aged considerably. Or perhaps she'd been too naïve to notice and understand the weathering appearance her brother's visage held, choosing only to see him as her loving, charismatic protector. His grey eyes gazed into the distance, waiting upon her answer. Aragorn and perhaps even her own father sent Elphir to convince Éomer to accept help. Lothíriel knew they had honorable intentions, but she worried at Éomer's consistent rebuttal of assistance.

"I will speak to him," she said quietly. Her brother looked at her and smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"If any can persuade him, it is you." He grinned and kissed her on the forehead before leaving. Lothíriel stood on the balcony alone again, a heavy feeling in her heart. She understood the threat both the Dunlendings and orcs posed to a vulnerable Rohan and by accepting help from Gondor, it would strengthen the alliance between the two kingdoms. But this was Éomer's land.

-o-

That evening, Éomer glanced up from his writing to see his wife staring out the window. Her hand rested on her flat abdomen and Éomer felt a pang of sorrow. He knew she longed to have a child and wondered if there was something wrong with him. She turned to him and offered a small smile, which he returned.

"My brother tells me of the fortitude of Gondor's army," she said quietly.

"It is amazing," Éomer agreed, setting the quill down and facing her. "But Aragorn is a man to rally behind. So it is of no surprise."

"Indeed," she replied. Éomer watched her, waiting for her to speak further. "It is certain they could spare men, should the occasion arise."

"What occasion would that be?" the King questioned haltingly. He could tell she was getting at something and he did not like it. She turned to look at him, her expression troubled. When she failed to continue, Éomer sighed. "I do not need the help of Aragorn's men, Lothíriel."

"You may not, but look at your people."

"My people are my responsibility," he snapped.

"Then you should be concerned with their well being rather than your pride," she countered. Éomer couldn't believe her words. He'd worked as hard as any man to ensure his people had all they needed without the help of the Gondorian king.

"Hold your tongue. Rohan does not need the assistance of Aragorn or his men. We will weather this difficult time just as we have for hundreds of years."

"Bands of orcs are waiting to take advantage of your people," Lothíriel answered with equal irritation. "The Dunlendings have proven themselves a worthy foe. Why would you sacrifice the safety of your people by refusing Gondor's help?"

"What would you know of ruling a kingdom?" he retorted darkly. "You in your walled palace in Dol Amroth. A spoiled princess with no knowledge of war and responsibility."

"Did not your uncle heed the call of Gondor?" she responded, visibly wounded by his words. Éomer regretted his callous comments but this was not the time to take them back.

"What of it?"

"He showed compassion to Gondor when she needed it most. And it is her chance to repay the favor."

"Do not think you can equate the war to this. My uncle did what he had to and was noble to the end. But I do not need the flippant offer of help from Gondor."

"You think you can do this alone, do you?"

"Bema's teeth, woman! You work an argument threadbare. I will not submit Rohan to the charity of Gondor! If my uncle were here, he would see this through without their help."

Lothíriel paused, biting back an acidic retort. Éomer realized he'd let his weakness slip. Her grey eyes watched him carefully from where she stood. Her face was flushed from yelling. He hated that he'd raised his voice to her and was mentally kicking himself as she took a deep breath.

"Very well," she answered tightly. She crossed the floor to the door before he could stop her and left him. It wasn't like he could stop her. His voice caught in his throat and he was left craning his neck to look at the door from which she departed.


	25. Points of View

Chapter 25: Points of View

Lothíriel paced the floor of the barn, arms crossed over her chest, expression troubled. The night guards glanced at each other, bemused as to their queen's actions. The hem of her navy dress was collecting dirt and hay as she walked back and forth. The horses welcomed her arrival with heads sticking out from their stalls, but, bored with her lack of attention, most had resumed previous activities. Lothíriel stopped her pacing, eyes closed as she mentally upbraided herself for the treatment of what was meant to be a gentle persuasion. Instead they ended up yelling at each other like angry children.

But she couldn't understand why he had to be so pigheaded about this. It wasn't as though his people would be worse off with the aid of Gondor. Her mind drifted to those biting words he'd said to her. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was just a pampered girl from a stone castle, not fit for the rugged life this country required.

"My lady?" Lothíriel looked up from her musings to see Elfhelm in the archway leading into the stable. He looked considerably healthier since their rescue from the Dunlendings. He walked toward her and quirked a grin. In the muted light of the barn, his face looked younger, less hardened. At his appearance, several horses peeked out from their dark stalls. Elfhelm stroked the long face of the beast closest to him, trailing his fingers down the horse's coat gently. Despite the general austerity of these men, their tenderness toward horses always made Lothíriel smile. Aside from Elves (who seemed to connect with all animals on a spiritual level), the men of Rohan had an undisputed relationship with equines.

"Something on your mind?" he asked at length. She watched him stroke the beast, its eyes closing with contentment. There was no point trying to avoid the truth.

"My brother was sent here to persuade the King to accept Gondor's assistance," she answered slowly. "For all his talents Elphir is no bard. He thought it best that I persuade my husband. But like my brother, my skill with words is noticeably lacking."

"I take it Éomer was none too thrilled to receive the offer."

"Not at all," she conceded, looking at the ground.

"Rohan has been independent of Gondor for a long time, my Lady," Elfhelm murmured, engrossed in untangling the horse's forelock. "Éomer is of the generation that prides impartiality. Even while the venerable King Theoden was under the power the evil wizard, the thought of asking for help was absent. Besides, Gondor has long suffered from ill management under corrupt stewards."

"Indeed," Lothíriel nodded. She knew well the foul council Denethor masqueraded as righteous truth. "Do you think Rohan needs the help offered?" Elfhelm paused in his ministrations.

"In theory, yes," he answered. "The extra soldiers would discourage wayward orcs from considering Rohan an easy target. But it would send a message to the Dunlendings that we are susceptible to their attack without the aid of Gondor."

"I see," the Queen sighed. She should have considered all possibilities before confronting Éomer.

"It is also a personal problem for Éomer," Elfhelm continued quietly. He watched her as he spoke. "He must establish himself as a good ruler."

"Would not accepting Gondor's aid show that he is willing to put his infernal pride after the safety of his people?"

"Yes," the man chuckled lightly. "But that is the way of Éomer. He is stubborn beyond reason. To him, it is about living up to image his uncle and ancestors held. his ascension to the throne was an unexpected one and I believe he struggles to prove himself."

Lothíriel sighed and felt the bitter taste of guilt in her mouth as she took Elfhelm's words in. She was far too impetuous in her effort to make Éomer understand her argument. He was trying to do what he felt would keep him people the most safe. Who was she to question his authority?

"My Lady?" her eyes rose to meet the man's. "He doesn't have a clue what he's doing. He is afraid of making a decision that would hurt the people he has sworn to protect. Do not feel bad if you think you said the wrong thing. He needs to figure this out without upsetting those he holds dearest." He smiled and turned, leaving her in the dark barn.

Later that night, Lothíriel returned to the bedroom. The candles were doused and the room was quiet. With a resolve to be as supportive as possible, Lothíriel slipped into her nightgown and crawled into bed. Éomer's form next to hers was heavy with sleep and she settled against the pillows, staring at the high ceiling. She felt her husband shift and turn to her. His eyes opened and he avoided looking at her.

"I am sorry for my behavior," he murmured. "I was unforgivably hurtful."

"I should not have questioned your ability to make decisions," she answered softly, turning to look at him. "I am here for you. As your wife and as Rohan's queen."

Éomer nodded and brushed her cheek with his fingers before closing his eyes. Lothíriel smiled to herself and waited for the embrace of sleep, hearing his words whisper through the night air.

"Thank you."


	26. The Long Road

Chapter 26: the Long Road

"I wish I did not have to leave you," the King of Rohan stated with a dejected expression, his hands grasping his wife's. His response was a gentle smile as Lothíriel drew his hands to her lips. They stood in the solitude of their chambers, Éomer dressed to travel, helmet awaiting him on the table. It'd been nearly a month since Elphir's visit and spring was finally settling into the country. Only two days prior, the King received a missive requesting his presence in Gondor to meet with Aragorn.

"Were I not with child I would accompany you," Lothíriel replied with a reassuring smile. Éomer's placed a hand on her still flat belly with a nod. Having only discovered her pregnancy a mere three weeks ago, neither wanted to chance another miscarriage. The man had become a being of constant concern and nerves when it came to his wife's well being. As irritating as it could be to have him worry for her every movement his anxiety was endearing. For her part, Lothíriel had neither slowed down nor halted her daily activities, despite the fretting of her husband. Even now as he prepared to leave, she anticipated the rush of words that poured clumsily from his lips.

"You must take care not to overstress yourself, Lothíriel. Don't go riding for more than an hour's time and nothing more than a walk. If you become tired you should rest immediately – don't wait. Your ladies will be at your side should you need assistance or a moment of respite."

"Éomer," the woman laughed. "I promise I will not overexert myself but you must take care as well. All this worry cannot be healthy."

"I cannot help it," he conceded with a sheepish glance at her midsection. The Queen of Rohan grinned and embraced him in response, her chin resting on his shoulder. His arms came around her comfortably, eyes closing as he breathed in her scent. In the two months after her abduction the couple had become significantly more affectionate, especially after news of her pregnancy.

She felt warm and inviting in his arms, but the morning was late and he needed to set off. His company was likely waiting for him, respectful of his delay but eager to leave as well. It was a week's ride to Gondor and the road was not particularly easy or smooth. With a lamenting sigh Éomer unfastened Lothíriel from his grasp, a quirk of a grin on his lips.

"I'd best not keep my men waiting." She nodded her agreement, picking up his finely polished helmet as he fastened the dark cape against his collarbone. After handing the item (which was more symbolic than necessary at this point) to him, the Queen accompanied her husband as they vacated the chambers. He could feel the warmth of her body as they progressed, wishing he did not have to leave the comfort of their bed to make his trip. Despite this, Éomer was eager to see Aragorn, a close and dear friend, as well as his sister. Leaving his wife was regrettable and the journey would be far less bothersome with her at his side, but he accepted that her safety was paramount.

Upon bidding farewell to the chief members of his staff the King stepped into the crisp spring morning, his riding gloves handed to him by Lothíriel. His men awaited his call to mount, their horses standing quietly with practiced patience. Gamling greeted his King with a nod as Éomer took Firefoot's reins from him. Turning to Lothíriel Éomer offered a smile. She returned it before dropping into a customary curtsy before her lord.

"A swift and safe journey, my King," she murmured as she rose to meet his eye. Every inch of him longed to reach for her and delay their parting, if only for another moment. But he swallowed such foolishness down as he squeezed her hand.

"I will relay your regards to your father and brothers," he returned, a task she'd charged him with almost immediately after they'd received King Elessar's request. "Keep well, Lothíriel. I look forward to impending returns."

With that the King mounted, his company following suit. Gamling gathered his sorrel mare's reins in a loose grip, offering the Queen a respectful bow of the head. Once his group assembled, twelve in total, the King gave the sign to move out, casting a final glance at his wife before wheeling Firefoot about to lead the men.

"May the Valar keep you well, Éomer King," Lothíriel called out the customary farewell as a tiny trail of dust rose under hoof. The company trotted down the hill with curt nods and raised hands as they passed the people. As much as he would've desired to cast his gaze behind them to find his wife, knowing she would be standing on the balcony until they quitted the gates, he knew it wiser to keep on. This journey would mark the longest time they'd spent apart, which made him uneasy especially with her pregnancy. He feared that which he couldn't speak of for fear of distressing her. But he knew the events that transpired during her first pregnancy lingered between, unspoken but ominous.

Collecting these concerns and storing them in the back of his mind, Éomer focused on the impending meeting between himself, Aragorn, Faramir, Imrahil and the Gondorian Council. It was a relief that Aragorn maintained their alliance by inviting Éomer (though he expected no less from the man) and it would be beneficial to discuss politics without currying letters. Leading his company from Edoras, the King of Rohan steeled himself against the impending loneliness and gathered his strength for the journey.


	27. In the Absence of the King

Chapter 27: In the Absence of the King

It was best not to dwell on Éomer's departure, partially because she was prone to strong emotion these days and also there was work to be done. He would make the journey without conflict, for only a fool would attack a company as fierce and strong as his. Still... a part of her worried for her husband's safety on the long road to Gondor and back again. Yet another part of her longed to accompany him. It'd been ages since she'd seen her father. Though she agreed travel at this time was imprudent and likely uncomfortable she couldn't deny a pang of regret at missing out. She would, however, endure as long as Éomer's child was born healthy. Her husband's excitement upon hearing of her pregnancy was palpable, the pride and love in his eyes giving her immense satisfaction. The threat of miscarriage still hung close, the wounds having yet to heal entirely. But this was a good step and she was beside herself with excitement.

Truthfully, the past two weeks had been the happiest for Lothíriel during her short tenure in Rohan. She was beginning to feel the stirrings of contentment here in the country, her longing for the sea diminished somewhat. And the people of Rohan seemed to have more faith in their Queen with winter over and the Healing House of Edoras thriving. They respected she was not a woman of Rohan but had their best interests at heart all the same. And as Elfhelm assured her that was what truly mattered to these people. Show them a ruler who loved and fostered their way of life and differences mattered little.

Her pregnancy had been announced to the court a few days prior and still folks were offering their well wishes and tributes, bouquets of coralberries and snowdrops left at the steps of Meduseld. It filled her with a sense of well being and appreciation. Twirling a sprig of winter-glories between her fingers the Queen made her way to the council room of Meduseld to meet with Elfhelm. She acted in Éomer's stead and assured him business would progress as usual in his absence. While she did not have the absolute authority of her husband, Lothíriel had displayed the political wherewithal to make decisions and function as a steward until the King returned.

Joining Elfhelm and his men, the Queen canted her head in greeting as the men bowed respectfully. Lothíriel made a conscious effort to stay abreast of the happenings in her land, often attending her husband's meetings or joining him in rides to the outlying villages. Winter had been rough but not as damaging as most feared. And the spring was promising to be merciful. The villages of Upbourn and Underharrow were thriving and there were generally positive reports from the Marshals of the Mark.

"Hail Lothíriel Queen," Elfhelm stated, waiting until she was seated before he found his chair.

"And you, Elfhelm," she responded in kind as a servant filled their mugs. Brushing a dark strand of hair from her face, the woman regarded the five men with a pensive gaze. "Marshal Leod, what news from the Eastemnet?"

"News of prosperity, Majesty," the man answered with a nod. He was a rough-hewn man in his forties, a Marshal of both East and West-mark. It was an intimidating position to command such a large region, but Leod had been in service of Theoden, proving himself time and again. His father retained the same position until his death and it seemed (to the Queen at least) that these positions were both hereditary and honorary. "The horses roam in abundance. Mares heavy with foal have been counted in every herd and it appears they have weathered the winter well. The herders are anticipating a good summer, thank Arda."

"A relief," the Queen agreed. "Keep a keen eye on Emyn Muil for orcs. The King does not trust it to become unprotected. Marshal Baldor, the Wold?"

"Also regaining strength, Majesty," the younger man replied, dipping his head. Unlike Leod Baldor was still young, though he'd served honorably during the War of the Ring. His cousin, the previous Marshal of Wold and Fangorn, fell in pursuit of Uruk-hai thereby leaving the post to Baldor. Éomer was uncertain of the man's potential with such a responsibility thrust upon him though Lothíriel felt the two were in similar situations. As it stood, Baldor was doing his best to please his King and honor his rank.

"Any noise from Dunlendings?" the question was spoken with no apparent concern but Lothíriel was deeply interested in any news involving Beorn or his brother. As of yet neither had been heard from and presumed to have gone into hiding, despite attempts to find them. The Queen found herself hoping the younger of the two had survived his haphazard amputation and the wrath of his irascible brother.

"Rumors but nothing of suspicion," the young man responded with a glance to Elfhelm. "My men report no evidence of their mischief or horse-theft."

"What rumors?"

"Dunlendings are migrating to Isengard and beyond the Misty Mountains. They have no leverage here with which to offend our King so they will retreat."

Lothíriel mused on the gossip for a moment while Elfhelm stared at Baldor. Like the Queen Elfhelm appeared suspicious of these rumblings, though it appeared the young Marshal didn't perceive a whole lot of concern. Leaning back, the man massaged his jaw beneath a trimmed beard, his eyes still on the Marshal.

"What manner of folk spreads these tales?"

"My Lord?"

"Be they villagers of the Wold? farmers? men of your company?"

"I," Baldor paused to think, clearly wondering if he was about to be chastised for something. "My men have relayed fragments of gossip they heard when encountering herders and the like. It seemed idle talk borne of supposition."

"Indeed," Elfhelm grunted, still in thought.

"I would not trust it," the Queen stated, her tone reassuring as she surveyed the young man. "Idle gossip it may be, fact even. But it is neither reliable nor likely."

"Keep your ears tuned to these rumors, Baldor. I suspect all manner of treachery from the Dunlendings that does not discredit spreading lies of retreat."

The younger man nodded silently, straight-lipped and determined to obey. Talk turned to the spring birthing of calves and foals. The men spoke candidly of their concerns and reservations, which pleased Lothíriel though she mostly kept silent. She was glad they could discuss what worried them before her without a filter. She had little to say on the matters, her knowledge far surpassed by their own. She was content to listen and understand the ways of Éomer's people.

When the council broke, the Queen took her leave for food. In the great hall she dined with Lady Berewyn and Cellwyn, the latter looking far healthier and happier than months passed. As the day passed Lothíriel began to dread the hour she would turn in to a lonely bed. Éomer had been beside her nearly every night since their marriage and now that she was with child she found a daunting challenge in sleeping alone.

As evening touched the purple-streaked sky, the sun sinking low the Queen stood in the royal stables, a brush in one hand. Though she'd groomed Dergh free of dust and grime the bristled brush remained in her hand, her arm resting against the narrow gelding's back. He paid her little interest, head dropped as he consumed the rest of his dinner loudly. Her grey eyes were trained on the view his stall window afforded, the mountains rising into the twilight. It was a lovely sight to be sure, but her thoughts strayed to Baldor's concerning report. The Marshal didn't seem perturbed by the rumors and while they may be of no consequence just the mention of Dunlendings had Lothíriel on edge.

"There you are," a familiar voice called out from the darkened aisle. Appearing from the grey shadows Elfhelm rested his forearms on the bottom door of Dergh's stall, a grin on his lips. She turned from the windows and dropped her arm from the horse's back. He barely noticed, raising his head to sniff expectantly at Elfhelm's arm. When nothing of value was detected the gelding resumed ignoring the humans.

"You were looking for me?" Lothíriel came closer as Dergh moved to the other side of the stall. Elfhelm nodded, his eyes on the bay horse.

"Aye. Didn't figure you'd be grooming at this hour."

"Me neither," she conceded with a glance to the gelding and a smile. "Though I'm not making good work of it." She placed the brush in Elfhelm's open hand and he deposited it into the grooming bucked outside the stall before opening the door for his Queen. Lothíriel stepped through and waited for the Marshal to secure the gate.

"It isn't a terribly difficult journey," the man stated, reading her thoughts. She cast a glance at him as they made their way to the Golden Hall.

"I am glad for it," she replied as they walked, crunching small stones underfoot. Lothíriel's dark blue dress nearly faded into the thickening darkness, lit only by the torches alight on their ascent to the Hall. Elfhelm waited until they cleared the steps before speaking again.

"Do you credit the rumors Baldor spoke of?"

So he was equally disquieted by the day's earlier conversation. It relieved her that she wasn't alone in uneasiness. Of course, of all the men in Edoras Elfhelm would be the most distressed by news of the Dunlendings. Though they hadn't spoken of their shared experience it was connection made clear by the young Marshal's statement.

"I don't know," she answered honestly as they entered Meduseld. Rubbing her hands against the cold the Queen took a seat at the long table. Others were milling around the hall, offering polite nods and quiet greetings. Elfhelm sat opposite her, accepting a tankard of ale and a piece of bread. "It concerns me that such rumors are even being spread."

"It is troubling," the man agreed between sips. "It does not seem likely they would shove off like that."

"Did you know of him? Beorn, that is." This was the closest they'd come to discussing the incident, both knowing it upset Éomer greatly to even think upon it. Elfhelm gave a half-shrug, the firelight glinting in his green eyes.

"His name was familiar to me. He's something of a leader among their people. Can't say I know much else. I half wonder if he's a descent of Wulf. Do you know of him?" Lothíriel shook her head so Elfhelm paused for a drink before continuing. "Wulf, son of Freca, invaded Rohan to avenge the death of his father at the hand of King Helm Hammerhand. He succeeded for two seasons but was slain and his men driven from the land. Dunlendings never quite got over that, though they had no claim to Rohan. Anyhow, no one quite knew what became of Wulf's lineage after they were cast out. Beorn's insistence that you salvage his brother's life might have something to do with their ancestry."

"Perhaps he guilt for his brother's predicament and did not wish him to pass. Not that way at least."

Elfhelm eyed her with a skeptical gaze, which made Lothíriel realize her suggestion was both naïve and highly unlikely.

"It may be so, my lady," the Marshal said though the tone implied he was trying to be polite. "But they are hard men. I have seen them leave their wounded to fend for themselves and burn homes with families inside. I do not think they feel obligated to save a kinsman's life if he is so unlucky to put it in jeopardy. That man didn't speak with any gratitude or affection when he spoke of his brother." Elfhelm's brow furrowed at the recollection, his expression lilting between ire and disgust. He took another quick swig before averting his eyes, his words released in a growl.

"They are pitiless beings with souls like orcs, you see. That they are human I am baffled for they share all the brutality and foul temper of Mordor's ilk. I imagine the only desire in their ignoble hearts is vengeance against Rohan." It caught Lothíriel off guard to see the usually jovial, kindhearted Elfhelm express such venom. And while his words were unexpected it was clear the Dunlendings were seen as heartless irritants to the folk of Rohan. Few could speak of them without an acerbic tone. Having recovered from his dark reverie, Elfhelm ducked his head in awkwardness.

"Forgive me, my Lady Lothíriel. I do not mean to infect our hall with such talk."

"It is alright," she replied with a smile. He returned the gesture and finished his mug. They spoke for a while longer of the spring in Rohan, Elfhelm offering some idea of what the Queen could expect of the land and her people. She was appreciative of his ability to shift topics and demeanor so quickly, his laughter lighting the hall once more. After some time Lothíriel bid the Marshal goodnight as she retired for the night.

As she prepared for sleep, Lothíriel's thoughts were consumed with the memory of their abduction. She hadn't thought of it at length for some time, pushing it aside if only for the sanity of her husband. But now she was confronted with strange tidings and the possibility of treachery from the Dunlendings. Though she trusted Elfhelm with her life and his opinions were of the highest regard to her she couldn't help but wonder. His opinion was understandably biased. And the bitter distrust in his voice was evidence enough that nothing good could come from a Dunlending.

Yet Lothíriel was plagued by Beorn's final words to her. He'd thanked her, though he could've easily killed or injured her and fled. Why he did not she couldn't imagine. Part of her feared his offhand dismissal of her despite being relieved that she left with her life. What game was he playing at? And what of Eofor? The boy was sent into the arms of danger, though Éomer's men reported finding none of the Dunlendings that's taken her and Elfhelm captive. It was all to baffling for her to try and piece together.

With a pang of guilt Lothíriel realized she'd spent most of the evening pondering the Dunlendings rather than her husband. She missed him sorely and slipping into the cold bed left her wishing she'd spent her time thinking of him. Closing her eyes against the solitude, the woman sent out a silent prayer for Éomer's safety and swift return. She fell asleep with his name on her lips and her hand on the womb which held their precious child.


	28. Undone

**_A/N: This chapter isn't the best, but I think it does its duty. Just a heads up, the writing in this chapter may not be my best. I just got home for a long shift at work, but I HAD to write this. Enjoy!_**

Chapter 28: Undone

Éomer shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, the sky above them grey and bleak. They'd spent the first night in the stronghold of Dunharrow, the selfsame location his uncle had used to muster his forces before they marched to Minas Tirith. And Théoden's demise. The narrow valley held a clear memory, still so recent for the young King he could not help but recall the sight of tents dotting landscape.

The present company of men set forth before dawn broke on the road through the White Mountains, which would take them through the once forbidden Path of the Dead – a place Éomer wouldn't have dreamed of crossing before the War. Now all that remained was a cavernous tunnel beneath the mountain range ending in the Blackroot Vale, a valley of Gondor. From there it would be a lengthy ride east through Lamedon and Lebennin before they reached the Seat of the King. This leg of the journey, though short, seemed infinitely more perilous than trekking the highlands of Gondor's fiefdoms. Even within his company there was apprehension in crossing the Path of the Dead, a dread that existed in the hearts of Gondorian and Rohirrim men alike since the Second Age. And although Aragorn had released those that haunted the Path there was a lingering restlessness about the small party.

For his part Éomer maintained a confident visage, leading his group through the winding road cutting through the mountains. Firefoot seemed equally unperturbed by the undead forces who once claimed this pass. There was nothing to fear as far as he was concerned and this path was once a widely traveled passage between Rohan and Gondor. Urging the mearas into a trot, he encouraged his men to pick up their speed (as well as their spirits). Grey surrounded them on all sides, the scraggly edges of the mountains a darker shade than the spring sky overhead. What little vegetation survived in this alien land clustered near the base of stone walls. The horses did not appear all too enthusiastic to file through the narrow passage, tail-swishing and head tossing frequent.

"Who'd think the living would be traversing this pass," Gamling intoned quietly beside Éomer. The older man's helmet, tied to the rear of his saddle, bumped against Firefoot's flank as Gamling's mare sidestepped a crater in the path. With a sidelong glance to the warrior, Éomer took pause to observe him. He was so used to seeing the man who'd served his uncle for a lifetime that he rarely appreciated Gamling's age. Despite his sardonic, lighthearted persona he was getting on his years. Realizing that he'd likely served the Rohirric Kings beyond his call of duty, Éomer offered him a grin.

"Not I, certainly. But perhaps, old friend, this will be your last arduous journey on a King's behalf."

Gamling looked to him with raised eyebrows and Éomer feared he'd offended the battle-hardened soldier. But the older man chuckled after a moment of silence, nodding his head in agreement as his laughter echoed through the Pass. The pair fell quiet as they continue along the stone road, the sounds of hooves falling like the steady beat of raindrops. Éomer wished to get beyond the majority of the Path of the Dead before they established camp for the night. Perhaps, if they made good time, they could make it to Blackroot Vale before nightfall.

It was late afternoon when they paused for a break in the journey to stretch their legs and relieve themselves. The path had widened significantly, enough to accommodate four riders abreast comfortably. It seemed a decent location for a short stop, though there was something ominous about the place. The precipice of the mountains rose into the clouds, the jagged edges of the cliff faces staring down at them and giving the Path some dimension. It also offered protection to anyone tracking or ambushing the party. The soldier in Éomer told him to be wary of this place. If they could not make it to Blackroot Vale they would have to take cover beneath the rocky outcroppings – a prospect he did not wish to entertain.

Once they'd taken a quick moment of respite, the men mounted up, Éomer once again in the lead. As he stepped into the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle he caught the glance of Gamling. A worried if not suspicious expression had etched itself into the warrior's face, giving some credence to the King's feeling of uneasiness. He nodded his concurrence on the disquiet this place reeked of. Of course the most foreboding of threats, the Dead Army, was long since gone. But that didn't mean there weren't other evils prowling the caves and hidden paths of the White Mountains. Éomer gave the signal to move out, his eyes trained on the shadows lurking above them.

"Gárulf, ready your bow," Gamling whispered to the solider as they rode on. Though it was a precaution, something about the old warrior's demeanor indicated to Éomer they must be on edge. No sooner had Gárulf notched an arrow to the string did a man in the back of the company cry out. Whipping around, Éomer sought the owner of the pained yelp, a young man leaning over his horse's neck, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Éomer's sword was already claimed by a swift hand as Gamling called out in Rohirric:

"We're ambushed!"

-o-

Lothíriel sat in the Golden Hall, book in hand, accompanied by the King's great wolfhounds. Normally the large beasts spent their nights in stable but the Queen had become fond of their company, especially in her husband's absence. This night they lay at her feet as she reclined in a chair near the hearth, a low fire crackling against the spring chill. Unable to sleep Lothíriel vacated her lonely bedchambers for the warmth of the Hall some hours prior.

She'd lost track of the time, having become so engrossed in the tale within her book that she barely noticed the occasional servant and guard checking on her. The two wolfhounds snoozed contentedly below her, clearly grateful of their mistress' affections. Dressed in a burgundy robe, beige night dress and calf-length sheepskin boots to keep her feet warm, the woman looked the perfect image of a lounging Queen. Her hair fell over her shoulder in a dark braid; shorter wispy strands avoided the plait and framed her pale face, her fingers occasionally reaching up to secure the errant locks behind an ear until they escaped once more. This was a far more suitable alternative to sleepless hours in a cold bed until exhaustion took over. Her husband's absence seemed more bearable when she could lose herself in a book.

The first night of the King's journey she'd found herself unable to slumber so she took up a book and relocated to the Great Hall. With equal measures of surprise and concern the attendants of the royal couple inquired after her health and welfare given the late hour. She assured them she was perfectly alright, this habit of reading late into the night stemming from childhood. Indeed, as a young girl she would sneak out of bed and bee-line to the vast Dol Amroth library in search of a new tale. Once an interesting story was in her hands, young Lothíriel made herself comfortable in a spot she could read and often didn't leave until she was woken by her brothers or maids in the morning.

After the first night of this practice, the household didn't seemed bothered when the Queen departed her chamber late in the evening of the second night, book in hand. She permitted the night guard at the stables to let the two wolfhounds in and they immediately took a seat at her chair, falling asleep in the heat of the fire without much prompting. She liked having the dogs near her as they reminded her of Imrahil's pair of sight hounds from home, silent (albeit sleepy) guardians. She'd lost track of the hours she'd been sitting there, her eyes passing over each word with a hunger, the tale unfolding before her without distraction.

Lothíriel barely heard the sound of approaching feet until they were almost ten paces from her, their sound breaking her concentration. Looking up from her book she was met with the trained visage of Haleth, Doorward of Edoras and two soldiers. Raised eyebrows met the men as she sat up straight, awaiting Haleth's briefing.

"Hail Lothíriel Queen," he greeted, voice tinged with uneasiness. She nodded for him to continue, maintaining a steady gaze despite the fear growing in her stomach. Had something happened to Éomer? "Forgive this intrusion at such an hour but I must bear you news."

"What has happened?" Lothíriel asked with a note of apprehension. She stood slowly, the lengths of burgundy fabric falling in rivers to cover her nightdress. It was a magnificently made garment that, when secured at the waist with ties, looked more like a dress than a robe, allowing her both modesty and warmth. The rich thread of the robe caught the fire's flickering light as the Queen moved to stand. The dogs at her feet had been roused long before her, one already standing at her side, the other gazing intently at the Doorward, tail thumping on the stone.

"Lord Leod, Marshal of the West-mark, has brought grave tidings, Majesty. He would seek council with you."

A lump began to grow in Lothíriel's throat as she nodded, following behind Haleth and his men. They quitted the Hall and followed a corridor into the meeting hall, footsteps falling monotonously. Wall sconces lit the smaller room, chairs still arranged from the previous convergence of King's advisers. Standing near the tapestry of Brego was a very tired and muddy-splattered Leod, a bow for the Queen occurring before she could address him. He must've ridden through the night to bring her this news.

"What tidings do you bring so late, Marshal?" Lothíriel inquired, hoping to keep the anxiety from her voice. For all she knew, this could have nothing to do with Éomer, though the pit in her stomach suggested otherwise.

"Majesty, my men were performing routine patrol of the Westfold when they came upon Dunlendings raiding Derin. The village itself was unoccupied, the herders moving along the fields to follow their horses. The company of men was small and unprepared. After a minor altercation, a Dunlending came into our custody. They have been keeping to the Mountains it seem. The prisoner has been secured in a cell."

"Is he of any importance among them?" the Queen asked almost as an afterthought, relief washing through her. Éomer was not the cause of this untoward meeting. The Marshal was shaking his head, indicating that they make their way to the location of the captive. Lothíriel followed with Haleth and guards in tow. She wasn't sure if it was appropriate for the Queen to deal with prisoners, but she was standing in for Éomer and the men must've felt it was important enough to alert her without tarry. She tried to focus on Leod's explanation of the detainee, who he believed to be an accomplice of a Dunlending leader. The man was abandoned by his kinsmen when it was clear the Rohirrim would prevail so he must not have had much standing with the Dunlending band.

"He's not much to look at, poor wretch," Leod put in as they exited Meduseld from the back.

Edoras was not known for its prison; in fact Lothíriel wasn't even aware the city had one until a few months ago. It was a narrow structure sitting on the downward slope of the hill, poorly lit but well guarded. It mostly housed the town's ne'er-do-wells and the occasional offender of the King but of late it'd been an empty building. Wrapping the robe further around herself and securing it with the tie, Lothíriel nodded her acquiescence when inquired if she wished to see the prisoner. Part of her hoped it was not the young Eofor, whose existence was likely not any easier, if he'd survived this long.

As they neared the dark building, Lothíriel realized this was a strong advantage that Éomer would want to capitalize on. Their prisoner could give Rohan information about the Dunlendings' movements and perhaps some insight into the rumors whispered in the Wold. It was a stroke of luck that Leod's men managed to take captive a Dunlending, even if he was of no political importance.

"You and your men have done fine work," she commended the Marshal quietly as they waited for door to be opened. Already two guards flanked the entrance, a candlelit glow emanating from within. Leod offered an appreciative bow as the door opened for them. Stepping into the prison, Lothíriel was met with a narrow vestibule facing three iron-gated cells. Leod indicated that the furthest cell from the door held the prisoner, his eyes on the Queen. It seemed they were all waiting to see what she might do or say.

Stepping forward and summoning as much fortitude as she could, Lothíriel nodded to the guard who raised the candle sending shadows skittering across the dirt floor. The small cell was bathed in low light, the captive sitting with his back against the stone wall, head bowed in supplication. When the light touched his dark hair and familiar frame, Lothíriel's heart sank. To her deep regret the younger brother, Eofor, had become a prisoner in her husband's city. This did not bode well for the boy, especially since it was she who would have to face him first. But when the Dunlending raised his head Lothíriel's breath hitched in her throat as his cornflower eyes met hers, the whisper falling unbidden from her lips.

"Beorn."


	29. Foreboding

Chapter 29: Foreboding

With barely a thought for his own safety Éomer called out orders, wheeling Firefoot about so his men could move along the path and out of harm's way. The road was wider and allowed both man and horse to thread around boulders and underpasses, shielding them from whatever ambush they'd walked into. The young man who'd been shot, Iothain, was moved to the center of their group to avoid further injury. Gamling pulled his mare off the road near Éomer, the warrior's expression drawn along with his sword. The mountains were quiet and there was nothing to be seen from the misted peaks. No sign of their attacker.

Four scouts dismounted at Éomer's silent signal, leaving their horses with the remaining mounted guards. On foot, two with arrows the other two with raised swords; they took the wordless command to creep along the protected edges of the road to find the attacker. The same protection their assailant used hid Éomer's men sufficiently from view. There was no telling how many enemies lurked just beyond view but the King estimated it was likely only one or two. Had there been more, a larger number of his company would've been attacked.

Meanwhile, the arrow embedded in Iothain's armor had been removed and, to his credit, the lad barely made a sound of discomfort. The weapon was passed through the group until it reached Éomer and Gamling. Without much scrutiny it was evident to both warriors the arrow was made by Orcs. Whether the marksmen was an Orc remained to be seen, but the dart-like appearance and roughly fletched end was indicative of Orc-weaponry.

Éomer felt the stab of guilt for leading his men into an ambush, though he really hadn't anticipated meeting any trouble. True, orcs had spread out in groups attacking and assaulting the kingdoms of Man, but laying in wait in the mountain pass hadn't crossed his mind. While it was a good way to attack unsuspecting travelers, very few (if any) used the Dimholt passage and there wasn't much in the way of food to be had. Any encampment of orc or otherwise would likely starve or move on. But it appeared he was wrong. The King had not the time to reproach his stupidity for the sound of a fight echoed hazily through the mountains. The noise of struggle ensued and then silence. After a moment, a voice rang out:

"We have them secured, my King."

Upon dismounting Éomer, flanked by Gamling and Gárulf, lead a number of their company in the direction of their men. The four scouts were standing some distance beyond on a rocky ledge overlooking the path. On the ground lay three Orcs, two dead and one bound foot and hand like a pig. While the wretches generally had a sickly appearance about them this trio looked particularly emaciated. The hollowed cheeks of the live orc rose and dipped as he pulled rattling breaths in. The leader of Rohirric scouts kicked the toe of his boot into the creature's ribcage, causing a sputtering gasp from the orc.

"Didn't put up much of a fight, my Lord," the man informed them, nodding to the deceased beasts. "Looks as though they'd been preying upon birds and rodents."

Éomer hadn't taken the time to investigate the scene, now looking upon the narrow ledge to find the bones of small animals scattered. The location was well hidden by the boulders and gave a fairly decent view of the road below. Gamling pointed to a larger pile of bones with the tip of his sword.

"Seems they resorted to eating their own."

As the King scrutinized the skeleton further he realized his Captain was correct. A humanoid skull lay cracked beside a robust femur and weathered mandible. Perhaps this lot was truly desperate. Turning his attention back to the bound orc, Éomer nodded to scout, who prodded the captive again and switched to the language of Gondor.

"Speak now, cur. You cannot save your life but you may at least receive a quick death for your trouble. How long did you stalk our party?"

"Dead door," came the raspy response in poor Westron. Éomer hardly expected the orc to speak Rohirric, much less understand it, and its Westron was pathetically lacking. It seethed for a moment before another kick to the torso elicited another sentence. "Hunger."

"Why are you here when there is no food?" Gamling inquired curtly. The brute paused to cough heavily, mucus and bile spilling from its thin lips onto the stone.

"Ordered. No choice. Here or death."

"By whom were you ordered?"

"Piss 'n rot."

The orc received a swift beating that left it gasping heavily, murky eyes bulging from its sockets. Gamling repeated the question and they waited until the creature regained its breath enough to offer an answer.

"Mordor orcs," it wheezed, tugging uselessly at its bound wrists. "Said guard dead path. Kill Man. Left us to die. To die we have."

Silence followed, the sound of its hissing breaths slowing. Éomer caught Gamling's uneasy gaze. This was both helpful and unhelpful news. Mordor orcs were ordering groups of their kind to kill men. Clearly it hadn't worked so well, but the thought was unnerving. Aragorn would wish to hear these tidings, though there was little sense to be made of them. The orc before them rallied somewhat, shifting its gaze to Éomer's feet.

"No peace to you will come, _shara bolvag._"

"You have yet to pass, worm. Speak your intentions or know my blade!" Came Gárulf's swift response, to which the dying orc laughed laboriously.

"Man can have no victory," it rasped, pausing for a breath and enjoying the bemused look on its captors' faces. "Evil in your soul. No life without. Destroy the Dark One, yes." The orc hesitated to cough once more, putrid liquid flung in heavy drops before the mens' feet. None of them could follow the creature's babbling but that didn't seem to bother it. "Fall with your greed…" it trailed of, grumbling in the tongue of its kind without much attention to the sword aimed at its head.

"I think he's done for," Gamling remarked grimly. Éomer nodded and left the orc to be dispatched. As they walked back to their makeshift camp, the King mused on the strange events. It was decidedly better to know their attacker was a trio of starved orcs rather than trained mercenaries or Dunlendings. But it spoke to some level of organization or planning on behalf of the Mordor orcs to send sentinels (pitiable though they were) to kill men attempting to pass beneath the mountains. When they reached the location of the men and horses, Gárulf offered a quick relay of the events to the soldiers. Éomer noted with satisfaction that Iothain had already been patched up and sat astride his horse as if nothing had happened. The arrow was tucked away in his saddlebag to present to Aragorn upon their arrival in Minas Tirith. One of the men noted with equal concern the oddity of the Mordor orcs leaving sentries.

"I cannot make sense of it," the King conceded with a deep-set frown.

"Seems they weren't terribly concerned for it though," Gárulf pointed out as he received the reins from another soldier. "Left those poor sods to waste away. Surely they couldn't expect them to handle any large group of men. They could hardly loose an arrow, let alone contend with a company of armed riders."

"Indeed," Éomer nodded as he mounted Firefoot. "I wonder at his final comment."

"Curses of a dying orc," another man suggested. The King shook his head thoughtfully, brow furrowed.

"I don't know."

"They have been disposed of," the lead scout announced as his men returned to the group. He mounted up followed by the others, awaiting the King's orders.

"We make for Blackroot Vale," he announced as he gathered his reins. They still had a while yet before they made it to their intended location. They hadn't entered the tunnel beneath the mountain yet and that would take them several hours to navigate. Éomer had no intention of bedding down at in the cavernous temple of the Dead. "We will push on and ride until we reach it."

With that, the King pushed Firefoot on leaving the dead orcs behind, his mind abuzz with distress and uncertainty.

**A/N: **_**shara bolvag **_**= cursed man **

**Input and comments would be fantastic now because I'm coming to another fork in the creative road. Do things seem realistic up to this point? Lothy's chapter is coming up soon! Thanks guys!**


	30. The Games We Play

Chapter 30: The Games We Play

Surely this was some trick of the light for Beorn would never allow himself to be left behind while his men fled. Her eyes strained in the darkness to search for the handless arm to verify her mistake but the familiarity of his face and those brilliantly blue eyes did not lie. Blue eyes that bore into her with a luminosity that didn't seem entirely natural. Though his visage revealed no indication of recognition his gaze betrayed him, watching her with unabashed interest. He sat with knees drawn up, back straight against the stone wall. His hands were manacled behind his back, an iron encircling one foot and connected by a chain to the wall. The stubble that had dusted his chin and jaw during their previous encounter had grown into a short beard, several shades lighter than his hair. A jagged cut traced his length of his right cheekbone and his bottom lip appeared split.

"He's a bit rough for wear," Marshal Leod intoned in Rohirric, Lothíriel's verbal identification of the man clearly unheard by her party. "Not sure how much he'll know. Two guards will remain here on watch at all times."

"Lord Elfhelm will wish to speak to him in the King's stead," Haleth put in from behind them. She'd almost forgotten he'd accompanied them. The Marshal nodded his agreement before taking a quick glance at the Queen.

"Majesty, I realize this might be somewhat unsavory for you. Perhaps I should escort you - "

"No," she answered, pulling her eyes from the silent Beorn. "I am alright. It is fortunate your men came upon him. He may be able to answer for the rumors spread across Rohan."

"More likely he'll spit at your feet, my Queen," Haleth murmured before casting a glower at the Dunlending. "Look at him, sitting there like a caged beast."

Lothíriel said nothing, her attention turned from the prisoner so she would not have to stare into his unrelenting gaze. Of all the Dunlendings marauding around Rohan it seemed particularly peculiar that Beorn's company would be discovered, much less that the man himself would become a prisoner. She wasn't sure what to make of his all too curious presence but knew she must interrogate him without raising eyebrows. Realizing the men were waiting for her to make a decision the Queen cleared her throat and chanced a glance at the Dunlending. He hadn't moved nor made any indication he was concerned about his present situation.

"It is too late for questioning," she stated decisively. "What information he possesses he will likely not give up tonight. I will return in the morning and we may begin the matter of interrogation."

The men dipped their heads respectively and began to file out, but not without leaving strict orders to the two guards remaining within to keep a wary eye on the prisoner. Once they'd vacated the building the Marshal turned to address Lothíriel as they made their way back to Meduseld.

"In circumstances such as these the King and his men would question the Dunlending," he announced, his breath coming in smoky wisps. "They might have to resort to rather unpleasant methods of interrogations, if you understand my meaning."

"I do," she affirmed as they walked, her eyes on the ground ahead. "Elfhelm and I will discuss how we shall proceed. I realize this is a responsibility of the King, but our Lord is not here. And I wish to do right by him."

"As you wish, my lady." Lothíriel wasn't sure if she detected a note of skepticism in the warrior's voice but she refrained from remarking upon it. Truthfully she wasn't entirely confident she could perform an interrogation, especially given the relationship between herself and the prisoner. Obviously no one but herself and Elfhelm knew the identity of the captive, which did not make things any easier. Once Elfhelm saw the man he'd surely recognize him and use all manner of loathsome techniques to extract answers. Lothíriel made the immediate decision she did not wish to be present for that.

She bid the men goodnight, retiring to her chambers and bringing the wolfhounds with her. She was glad her windows did not face the south for she'd have a direct view of the prison. Questions swirled tirelessly in her mind, divided between her present state of affairs and concern for her husband's safety. He and his retinue still had a long road of them and would be in Gondor for some time before making the lengthy ride home. She wondered what their council would discuss and if Éomer would be hounded (kindly) by King Elessar and others for not accepting Gondor's assistance. She hoped for the sake of her husband's ire no one would broach the subject. As much as she trusted he could keep his anger in check such a confrontation would leave a bitter taste in his mouth for the duration of his stay in the White City.

Crawling into the cold bed and patting the empty mattress beside her, she waited for both great dogs to join her. Éomer would not be pleased to have two outdoor hounds sleeping on his bed but she would make sure the linens were changed before he arrived. Lothíriel wasn't fond of sleeping alone in the chamber and, if she was being perfectly honest with herself, having the dogs there gave her some level of security. She knew Meduseld was well guarded and no harm would come to her people but without her husband and the fear of another miscarriage the Queen allowed herself to indulge in this. The dogs settled comfortably on the large bed, tails wagging appreciatively. They were asleep almost immediately, gentle canine snores lulling her to sleep soon after.

Lothíriel slept later than she intended, meaning to be up by dawn to discuss the Dunlending with Elfhelm. But it was three hours after sunrise when she finally roused, the sound of the wolfhounds nails clicking against the stone bringing her from sleep. Cursing herself for staying up so late the night before, she pulled herself from the bed and yawned widely. Sitting at the edge of the bed she redressed her hair into a loose braid and pinned it into a coronet. After washing her face and changing into a shift the Queen admitted a maid to assist her in securing the ties of her dress. She dressed warmly today, aware of the challenges before her in dealing with Beorn. Letting the dogs out, Lothíriel made her way to the Great Hall, greeted by an equally tired Haleth.

"Good morning, my Queen," he greeted in a low bow. She nodded to him as she took her seat, porridge and fruit set before her. She indicated for him to take a seat at the table as well, gesturing for a plate of bread and cheese for the Doorward of Edoras.

"And to you, Master Haleth. Is Lord Elfhelm about?"

"I am sorry, Majesty, but Lord Elfhelm took his leave an hour prior. His éored departed for Helms Deep for a routine inspection."

"Does he know of the prisoner?" she inquired between apple bites. She was surprised the Marshal had left without interrogating Beorn.

"He does," Haleth returned, declining the food. "He did not visit the captive himself but he will return in the evening to begin interrogations."

At first Lothíriel found this somewhat dubious. If Elfhelm was aware Beorn was under their command, why would he leave? But it dawned on her none of the Rohirrim knew _who_ the captive was. To them he was just another Dunlending and almost certainly informed the Marshal thusly. Elfhelm probably saw no reason to stay for questioning when he could just as easily come back after he finished his daily agenda. What a surprise he would receive upon his return to Edoras.

"My Queen?" Lothíriel glanced at the Doorward, eyebrows raised. "Would you have us wait until Lord Elfhelm arrived before the prisoner is examined?"

"No," she shook her head slowly and set the mug down. "I will see him. At least we might determine what his disposition is."

The Door ward said nothing but canted his head in agreement. Lothíriel could see from the expression he wore that he wasn't expecting her to do much with the prisoner. Honestly, she wasn't anticipating getting very far. She didn't want Beorn to make his identity known to the Rohirrim until Elfhelm arrived. But she couldn't leave him sitting there without getting answers. Besides, if Éomer were here he would conduct an interrogation with or without the Marshal. Upon finishing her breakfast, the Queen departed the hall and donned an intricately stitched cloak of forest green to keep her warm. After taking care of a few domestic matters Lothíriel alerted Haleth and the head of staff that she was going to see the Dunlending. She brought a guard with her and made her way behind the Meduseld.

The jail looked a lot less drab in the morning light, the thatched roof and narrow construction hardly indicated a prison. It was set back some, the path to the building littered with rocks and newly sprouted grass. Greeting the two soldiers who'd spent the night watching the captive, the Queen went inside. Her own guard followed her in but at her command lingered near the door, a hand on his sword. It was significantly colder in the prison than it was in Meduseld, the lack of a hearth meant the only warmth came from the insulation of the building. Sitting as he had been the night before, the Dunlending barely raised his eyes to look at the Queen. Although he was bound she stood several paces from the bars of his cell, unsure what action (if any) he might take.

"Looting an unoccupied village does not seem an act of necessity," she surmised with an even tone. She waited patiently for a response, though Beorn scarcely acknowledged her presence, head hung as he slumped slightly against the pressure of his bonds. When he said nothing she resolved to vex him into speaking. "Was it your intention to be caught?"

The Dunlending snorted petulantly, her question affecting him enough that he shifted slightly, pulling his head up to meet her gaze. His cerulean eyes glared at her with an intensity that shocked her. Their color was both incandescent and ill. Aside from the jagged abrasion to his cheek, Beorn suffered a thin gash to his forehead that she hadn't seen before, the blood on his lips dried since the night before. His tunic was sullied with dirt and blood, whose blood it was remained unknown. She observed him with what she hoped appeared to be cool appraisal. She didn't wish to inform anyone that this was the man who'd abducted Elfhelm and herself and killed her men. Not until she had questions of her own answered.

"It must've been," she continued with her prodding intending to aggravate him further. "My men said you were abandoned by your company and didn't put up much of a fight." A stretch, but she didn't care. Beorn stared icily at her but she could tell he was catching on to her game. "As if you were asking to be captured."

"And if that was my intention?" his voice was coarse and mocking as leaned back against his bound hands to look at her fully. Lothíriel resisted the urge to back away, lifting her chin and clasping her hands before her hips.

"There must be some reason for it," she answered steadily. "Only a fool comes to his enemy without intention."

"Perhaps I am a fool."

"Perhaps," she agreed, not allowing him to manipulate the conversation. "But I would like to believe you are here with an objective in mind. Surrender of your people and agreement that the violence will end?"

He grunted his disapproval and leaned his head back against the wall, dark matted hair falling away from his face. She waited with baited breath, unsure how this complicated man might react. She knew very well he was not about to surrender to Éomer or any Rohirrim but his capture was not a trifle. He was very obviously the leader of his band.

"To what end, Horsequeen?" he mumbled gloomily. "Your men will descend upon this shit of a prison and beat the answers from me or leave me to die. Even if by some miracle of the Valar I escape, you know as well as I these wounds will fester and infect my blood. I am a dead man."

This was not the Beorn she'd encountered in the highlands of Rohan. This was not the man who was so unflappable in his distinction as leader and in complete control of his environment. Even when things turned bad he never once gave up the sense of nonchalant power. He was no longer in his element but there was something degraded about him. Something that gave Lothíriel pause in her questioning. When she didn't speak the Dunlending forced his head upright with some labor, his eyes finding hers once more.

"Where is your King?"

"Away," she answered with stupid honesty. Taking a moment to regain a confident tone, the Queen swallowed before continuing. "His Marshals and I act in his stead."

"What questions would you have me answer," Beorn inquired with ingenuous geniality as he leveled his gaze, the hint of his old self glinting in narrowed eyes.

"Why you are here."

"Your men bested me. Is that not clear to you, Queen of Rohan?"

"You do not appear a man easily bested."

"And what would you know of the man I appear to be?"

_Curse __him_, she thought crossly. He was turning her interrogation upon her. He wasn't going to answer her questions until she played by his rules. It would be over when Elfhelm returned and likely sentenced him to a torturous death. There'd be no answering her less pertinent queries, though she found she desperately wished he would tell her.

"Very well," she conceded tightly, stepping closer to the cell. "I know enough of your character to know you would not be here without a significant struggle resulting in the death of Rohirrim and Dunlending, Beorn."

Now she felt like the fool for letting him get to her but she wanted answers before he was silenced by her husband's men. He's punishment was death, undoubtedly. The guard behind her hadn't made a sound but she imagined his interest (or suspicion) was piqued by her identification. Beorn was not a Rohirric name to her knowledge and the wry smile it elicited from the Dunlending made her insides turn.

"If you tend to my injuries, I will tell you what you wish to know, my lady."

"I will send for a healer to -"

"No," he stopped her with a brusque rebuff, directing a jerk of the head toward her. "You."

"Surely you cannot expect me to step into your cell and treat your wounds as if you were an ailing calf!"

Once again, Beorn had managed to shock her with the superciliousness of his demands and he knew it. She didn't even wish to know what the guard was thinking now. She glared at the captive, unable to hide her incredulity at his ridiculous request.

"I will either die by your husband's hand or from these cuts. I'd prefer to do what I can about the latter, since there is no calling off your King's rabid ire. It is up to you, Horsequeen. You held me to my word once and I did not disappoint."

Lothíriel stared at him with unmasked suspicion and disquiet. She hadn't held him to his word - she'd had no choice. Of course, she didn't _have_ to know these things. She wanted to. She wanted to know what'd become of Eofor, Beorn's unfortunate brother. And she wished to know why his men were plundering empty villages and haunting Rohan without any direction to their pillaging. Were they the ones who sparked the rumor that the Dunlendings were moving on? Was it true? And while, for the love of Adrahil, did Beorn simply allow himself to end up captured while his men fled?

But in the grand scheme of things these curiosities did not seem worth the humiliation of helping a Dunlending just to soothe his pride. With a frown, the Queen of Rohan stared at the man before breathing an irritated sigh. Turning on her heel she left the prisoner without a single glance behind her, barely hearing Beorn's satisfied galling snigger as she passed the threshold, the door closing firmly in her wake.

**A/N: Oh that Beorn! He's such a charmer! More from him soon. Thoughts on this chapter? ****Should Lothy help the poor Dunlending?**  


**Also, Adrahil was the first Prince of Dol Amroth so I thought it fitting that he be referenced by his successors the way Bema is by Rohirrim.**


	31. Unexpected Revelations

**A/N: A nice long chapter for making y'all wait. Reviews would be VERY helpful as I develop this part of the plot more. Does this make sense? Also, sorry for any mistakes/typos in this one – I'm a bit scattered brained with personal issues. Thank you for all the support and encouragement thus far! **

Chapter 31: Unexpected Revelations

The wind beat furiously against the stone whipping the azuline banner into a thudding frenzy, the heavy fabric pitching against the iron rod staking it to the ramparts. Flashes of silver thread danced as the gusts successfully obscured the image stitched into the flag. Salt and sand flew up on the wind, striking the skin of men pulling against the ropes, orders shouted with grim efficiency. The clouds swelled above them in grey masses releasing thick raindrops, which fell on already drenched sailors.

Twelve year old Lothíriel braced against the squall as she followed her brothers hastily down the stone steps, her clothing already drenched. Behind her the Healers of Dol Amroth quickened their pace soon overtaking the girl as they hurried to reach the docks. The bodies of injured sailors passed from man to man until they were secured on cots and spirited away to the city. The Princess of Dol Amroth paused in her progress toward the ship as Erchirion shouted something over his shoulder, lost in the din of the approaching storm. Her expression bore frustrated confusion as his drowned words were followed by swift gestures indicating she depart with all haste.

Before she could object to this affront, Amrothos turned and pointed emphatically at the walls of Dol Amroth – his instructions clear. With a frown, the girl obeyed her brothers but not before giving them a proper scowl. This was clearly no place for a girl, much less the daughter of a prince. They'd received word only an hour before that a Gondorian merchant ship had been attacked by an Umbarian Corsair vessel with no clear provocation. The bodies of the wounded had been claimed by Dol Amroth's sailors and brought to the city for healing.

Despite knowing full well that she had no place on the docks (much less in the rain and wind), Lothíriel had trailed her brothers with the intention to assist as well as observe. But she'd been sent back to the Hall of Healing without much fight. Griping quietly at the injustice, the Princess allowed herself to be herded by her father's attendants, her wet hair wrapped in a towel and a fuss already ensuing.

"My lady," cried Ivriel, her expression hardly sympathetic. "Why must you put yourself in the path of peril?"

"For I am unruly and unwise," she grumbled. "I just wanted to see."

"There is nothing to be seen, my Lady," Ivriel affirmed as she clasped her hands around Lothíriel's narrow shoulders in attempt to guide her away from the chaos. Behind them men were carrying their wounded comrades into the Hall of Healing, groans and murmurs of pain reaching the Princess' ears. Snaking her way out of Ivriel's grasp, the girl turned on the attendant and pulled the towel from her head. Dark curls fell in disarray from the messy coronet.

"I have to help," Lothíriel reasoned, lifting her chin slightly. Already she was making her way in the opposite direction "I am a Healer's Apprentice and these men are in need of care."

"You're the imminent death of me," the woman muttered already following after the girl as she went to enter the chamber. The din of the storm was muted substantially within the stone and marble walls of the Healing House, lit by thousands of candles on sconces and chandeliers. A short narrow nave led to a small apse where the grey statue of Aglahad, the nineteenth Prince of Dol Amroth and the founder of the Hall of Healing, stood surveying the entrance. Great tapestries hung from the vaulted ceilings displaying the emblem of the city – a ship suspended on a sapphire sea floating beside a silver swan. Metallic tassels hung just high enough for a man of average height to pass beneath.

Flanking the nave on either side were deep aisles leading into the rooms and chambers for the sick. Already the Healers were making their rounds, servants scurrying from room to room with fresh linens, pitchers and all manner of medical supplies. The injured men were moved promptly to the cots and seen to immediately.

Rolling her sleeves up the young Princess accepted an apron from a servant, tying it as she walked toward the nearest room. Ivriel had long since disappeared from her peripheral, though she had no doubt the woman was nearby. The high windows offered no light, rain hitting the glass like a heartbeat. In this chamber six men lay on cots spread about, two Healers attending to them in rotation. Greeting the Master Healer, Galadain, Lothíriel joined him beside a patient who moaned in a state of unconscious, his weathered face foreign to the Princess. His garb had already been stripped from his battered body, his clothing nondescript and generally soiled.

"Multiple lacerations to his torso, bruises along his back and a nasty head wound," the elder Healer stated as he indicated to the injuries. The girl nodded and examined the man in silence as her mentor looked on. She'd been Galadain's pupil since she was seven, assisting him as her skill and intellect improved. He was among the best healers in the West and was often called to Minas Tirith to the House of Healing to lend his expertise. Lothíriel took a rag infused with herbs and began the task of cleaning a long cut on the sailor's neck. While she wasn't surprised the man's face was unfamiliar to her, there was something exotic about his general appearance. He didn't seem a man of Gondor.

"Bed rest with a steady infusion of elderberry and white willow to stave off a fever," she answered Galadain's unanswered question, pleased when he nodded and began to depart for another patient. A thought gave her pause and she glanced over her shoulder at the Healer. "He is not a man of Gondor."

"Indeed," Galadain replied with a frown. He turned back to the girl and approached the wounded soldier again. "I observed this as well."

"Who is he?" Lothíriel asked with childish curiosity, her grey eye gazing up at the man who served as a second father to her. Galadain took a steady look around the room before returning his gaze to the sailor.

"An Umbarian Corsair, I reckon."

"What?" Lothíriel nearly cried, immediately checking her tone, though unable to hide the surprise from her expression. "How can we treat him when his pirates did this to our men?"

The girl chanced a look hoping no one heard her outburst. It seemed outlandish that Galadain would even think to bring an Umbarian into the Hall of Healing, much less ease his misery. The aged man took a seat beside the Princess, catching her gaze with a patient expression.

"My Lady, we are healers. We do not discriminate among our patients."

"But –"

"Whatever his actions, he ended up in our care. It would be wrong to deny him the attention he needs." He held up a hand to arrest her next objection, a sad smile gracing his thin lips. "Let your father determine this man's fate for his sins against our countrymen. Until then all we can do is give him the tending we would ask for were we in his situation."

-o-

Lothíriel folded a beige towel before setting it in the shallow basket. Filling the space with tinctures, a knife, salves and other medicinal items, the Queen of Rohan stood in the storeroom of the Healing House. Her initial decision to leave Beorn to his misery was plagued by guilt from the moment she left him in the prison. The memory of Galadain's words hung heavy in her mind and it was clear she could not deny the wisdom of his judgment. She could not recall what happened to the Umbarian pirate found among her father's men but she did remember taking care of him as Galadain instructed. And she knew she could not fault the old Healer's certitude.

Gathering these items to her Lothíriel exited the Healing House of Edoras, shielding her eyes against the spring sun as she closed the door behind her. Several hours had elapsed since she first viewed the prisoner. It took her some time to struggle with her decision but she had other duties to attend to, which allowed her to ponder the conundrum. Once she decided she would heal the Dunlending she could not convince herself otherwise. It was the right thing to do.

This time she went without a guard. It would be odd enough for the Rohirrim to see their Queen easing the suffering of Rohan's enemy. Odder still that it was the same man who'd abducted her and sought Éomer's despair. But Lothíriel knew what Galadain would tell her were he still alive in this age. And Beorn's actions would be accounted for in due time.

Crossing the hill with an even pace, the Queen did not appear particularly suspicious or in a hurry. While she didn't wish to cause a scene, Lothíriel was also confident in her convictions. Met with any opposition she would explain her intentions and continue on. But no opposition came, the folk of Edoras attending to their daily schedules without much concern for a prisoner behind Meduseld. Pulling the navy cloak against her body the Queen made her way toward the small building, her feet crunching pebbles and dry grass underfoot.

Since their last meeting in the morning, the Queen had donned warmer clothes: a long sleeved woolen dress of deep grey with a silver belt beneath the navy cloak. Her dark hair had been re-braided down her back, a narrow silver coronet adorning her head and crossing her forehead in the Rohirric style. Though the quality of the clothing was befitting royalty, the simplicity of the attire was in keeping with Lothíriel's desire to remain unassuming among her people.

With a decisive breath, she allowed the guards to open the door to the prison for her, stepping confidently into the dark room followed by one soldier. Golden light filtered through the dusty ridden windows allowing for modest lighting and heavy shadows. Stepping up to the cell, the Queen tried to discern Beorn's body amidst the grey darkness. She could barely make out his seated figure though he made no movement to acknowledge her.

"Here I thought you'd be leaving me to rot," he intoned from somewhere near the back of the enclosure. His voice held a note of challenge despite the hoarseness. Lothíriel said nothing but indicated to guard to open the cell door. "Come to tend to my decaying wounds have you, Healer Queen?"

"Shut your miserable trap," the Rohirric guard snapped, his head resting on the sword's hilt. Lothíriel stepped past him with nod, setting the basket on the floor near the entrance. Without a glance to the prisoner she began unpacking the items, setting the waterskin aside and laying the objects in a neat row. Once she finished the Queen knelt in the narrow beam of hazy light, staring at Beorn with an even expression.

"You may yet rot," she stated as she waited for him to come toward her and the guard. She knew his shackle would not allow him to get near the cell entrance, but it seemed he could at least move from the shadows. "But I will treat your injuries if you would bring yourself closer."

The man snorted but slowly gathered himself to scoot closer. He would not crawl, she observed, but push his hands against the ground and move his bottom toward her. He stopped just shy of the light, those blue eyes illuminated against the dirt and blood on his face. Seeing that she intended him to sit within the beam of sunlight, he sighed heavily and moved another few inches until half of his body was bathed in light. He looked paler than before but the spark in his gaze was not lost on her.

"Don't let your guard dog fret, Queen," he murmured with a jerk of the head at the Rohirric man standing at attention behind her. "I know my boundaries."

"A consolation to him, no doubt," Lothíriel replied as she readied a compress. After using a bit of water on the linen, she leaned forward to offer the skin to him. When he turned his face from her she pulled back for a moment, her grey eyes catching his. "I do not know what state you will be in when my husband comes for you so you'd best drink this. It may be the only water you are afforded."

With a frown he turned his face back and allowed her to bring the skin to his cracked lips. Without removing his eyes from her he let her dispense the water slowly into his mouth. She could tell his body needed the hydration desperately but he was measured in his swallows, not permitting her to see any hastiness on his part. When he'd finished a substantial amount he pulled his face away. With a nod, she set the skin aside and leaned forward again to press the water-logged cloth to the gash on his cheek. The muscle in his jaw clenched when she applied further pressure but no sound of pain came forth. Patiently the Queen of Rohan began the process of cleaning the wounds the Dunlending suffered her concentration focused on the task, though she did not miss the intensity of his gaze while she worked. For his part Beorn barely let out a hiss of pain, his tolerance rivaling that of the Rohirric soldiers she'd tended.

"Provided you don't go rolling in filth, the wounds are clean," she announced as she sat back on her heels. Her knees were sore from pressing against the hard ground, and her fingers were red with his blood. A bead of sweat ran down her temple despite the chill in the cell. Beorn had remained motionless for the duration of her ministrations and now let his shoulders hunch slightly.

"Finished are you?"

"Unless there are more wounds elsewhere to attend to."

"Those were the most unpleasant."

"Are you sure?" she eyed him with a frown. Sullied cloths lay near them, stained with his blood and dirt. She'd spent a good portion of time simply cleaning the wounds before applying the salve and herbs to help the skin heal itself. There would be no bandaging these injuries. Neither abrasion was terribly deep nor was the cut on his mouth too unsightly.

"I am," he replied, one side of his lips pulling into a crooked smile as if he found her concern endearing. "A few bruises and scrapes but nothing that your royal eyes need to see."

"You asked me to tend to your wounds," Lothíriel reminded him as she began collecting the soiled linens. "I will finish the job if there is more to be done."

"I am well cared for, Queen of Rohan. I am in your debt."

"Don't jump to gratitude so quickly. You are still bound to punishment for your acts. I have no power over the King or his men to stand in the way of their justice."

"Would you?" Beorn looked at her now with interest flaming in his azure gaze. "Would you prevent them from delivering me to my fate?"

"You are not innocent of the deeds they would punish you for," she answered carefully with a frown. "I cannot say I would catch the hand that wielded the executioner's blade but I would not be that hand."

"A diplomatic answer, indeed," he murmured with a twinge of bitterness. Lothíriel began wiping her hands on a clean rag, removing his blood from her skin when she paused to look at him.

"I cannot overlook what you did to my men. All for the concern of a brother you threw into the jaws a peril before he was ready."

"Do not think you can understand the choices I had to make," he snapped a shadow of his former self slipping through as he leaned toward her. "Eofer knew the risks as well as any man in my company. You gave him the opportunity to live through his folly so do not pretend you are any less guilty than I. We both did what we had to for him to survive."

"And did he?"

"Yes," he murmured with a lowered tone, his gaze dropping. "His arm is well healed and he retains a fair amount of strength despite the loss of a hand."

"I am glad," the Queen answered earnestly. They sat in silence as the moments stretched by, heaviness in the air between them. Lothíriel placed the rag in the basket and met his eyes once more. When he held her gaze she spoke in a quiet assured voice. "Why are you here, Beorn?"

"To warn your King."

"Of?"

"The devices of his enemies."

"You are his enemy."

"Yes," the Dunlending agreed with a disappointed frown, his brow knitting despite the gash above his eyes. "But I fear his enemies will soon be mine. And we cannot dispatch them with the might your husband can."

"Beorn, tell me what you know."

"I will but know this," he paused to make sure she was looking him in the eye before continuing. "The disagreements between your husband's people and my own run deep. This does not discount what I have always believed in regarding the Rohirrim. This threat, however is greater and more pressing. To keep the Dunlendings from mass slaughter I fear I must lay down my sword for the time being and seek the counsel of Rohan's king."

"What is this enemy?"

"Easterlings that have joined forces with the orcs of Mordor. They have haunted the edges of Rohan for some time gaining strength to over throw your husband's rule."

"They have attacked your people?"

"Not yet," he replied before shifting his position with a glance beyond her. The guard behind Lothíriel hadn't moved but she knew he was prepared to draw his sword should Beorn pose her any harm. "They have sent emissaries requesting an alliance between Dunlendings and their forces. No, you don't need to say it. I realize this is precisely what I have wanted since I was a child. But it will not last, my lady. As soon as we did the dirty work they would slaughter my people and claim the power for their own kind. We are their machines of war and I cannot allow it."

Lothíriel stared at him with renewed respect. Beorn didn't appear entirely comfortable with her gaze, his hands twisting against their bonds as he sighed uneasily. His explanation wasn't entirely understandable yet but she didn't press it until he was ready to speak again.

"Between Rohirrim and Dunlendings we can keep these foes from gaining access to seat of power. Believe me this is not an ideal alliance but it is the lesser of two evils."

"You allowed yourself to be caught to deliver this message?" the Queen asked quietly. "You let my husband's men beat and chain you to seek an audience with Éomer?"

"There was no other way to gain his attention. Letters wouldn't be believed and I should think it would send a better message if I sought his counsel directly." A sly smirk crossed his features as he tilted his head, watching her. "Besides, I knew you wouldn't let me suffer too greatly before I received an audience with him."

"Do you know their intentions?" when he didn't answer she posed the question differently. "Why take up a seat in Rohan?"

"Rohan is the weakest of the lands of Men," Beorn murmured with another frown. "I do not know their intentions with certainty. But with Mordor turned to wastelands I suppose they are looking to avenge their defeat. Perhaps it seems an easy target."

"These are tidings the King will wish to know immediately, though he won't return for some time," she mused out loud. She was perplexed when a hopeful grin crossed the Dunlending's split lips, a strand of dark hair falling over one eye as he regarded her.

"Then I have enough time to heal before I'm beaten to a pulp for my trouble."


	32. Dinner and Discourse

Chapter 32: Dinner and Discourse

"This is troubling news," King Elessar remarked with furrowed brows as he set the goblet of wine down. Éomer nodded his assent while the once Ranger leaned back in his finely crafted chair in thought. The two dined alone this evening, having spent the last several days in the company of their allies. The well lit hall of Minas Tirith was unusually quiet this evening compared to the hustle and bustle Éomer had witnessed in the days previous.

"Yes," the Rohirric king conceded with a deep set frown. This was the first opportunity he'd had to discuss the situation of the Dimholt orcs with the King of Gondor privately. It was Éomer's most pressing matter but it was only now that he could share his concern with Aragorn. Both had been long engaged with meetings and councils, hardly able to clasp hands before they were embroiled in the affairs of kings.

"I have heard reports of orcs spreading from the Black Lands with the intent to exact revenge on Men," Aragorn mused, his elbow resting on the chair's arm. A servant silently removed their empty plates and refilled the wine as the men sat in contemplative silence.

"You do not think them leaderless," Éomer murmured after a moment, looking up to catch the affirmation in the other man's gaze. "Who?"

"I do not know," the other admitted, shaking his head slowly, the narrow crown glinting in the candlelight. "I am advised that it is likely no more than an underling of Sauron's attempting to seize power since the destruction of the Ring."

"Such advisements seem risky."

"Indeed," the King agreed. "I would not wager our kingdoms' safety on such suggestions. Perhaps they are true but we would be remiss if we did not view this as a threat. What of the Dunlendings?"

"Irritants and outsiders," Éomer answered slowly, thanking the serving maid with a nod as she placed clean silverware before him. "I don't expect they're civilized enough to come to an agreement amongst themselves, let alone join forces with anyone."

"Then we must look to other options. But do not discount any enemy, my friend. I fear there is more darkness to overcome in these years. Sauron's influence was vast and while we have achieved his defeat I am troubled over the machinations of men and orc alike. The Easterlings appear compliant with our victory but there may be treachery breeding among their ranks. I do not know what peril the Dunlendings bring your people but this situation with the Morder orcs is certainly disturbing."

"I will maintain sentries at the entrance of the Dimholt," Éomer announced quietly as Aragorn worried his chin in thought, his fingers running through a beard that was both fuller and better kept than the first time Éomer met the Dunedain.

"And I will have men posted at Blackroot Vale. If the mountain pass is secured from both ends there will be no surprises." King Elessar paused to study the other man, his expressive pensive but calm. "Do you think there is more trouble to be had from these orcs?"

"It seems this is an isolated case and yet," Éomer trailed off as he too leaned against the back of his chair, the fabric of his tunic rustling against the wood. He was dressed in informal attire, his livery stripped after their last official meeting with the Council earlier that evening. Aragorn had also opted for a more relaxed appearance though he still wore the crown of Gondor. His Elven wife had left the two to their supper with a knowing smile to her husband, bidding the King of Rohan a polite but subdued farewell. The shared glance between Aragorn and Arwen had not been lost on Éomer though he did not remark upon it. But it reminded him how strongly he wished to quit these lands and return to Lothíriel in the comfort of their home.

"My friend?" Éomer was snapped from his thoughts by Aragorn's teasing tone and simpering grin. Coughing lightly to cover the embarrassment at being caught staring into the Grey Havens the King of Rohan sat up a little straighter.

"My apologies," he replied with an unapologetic smirk. "Often I find myself missing the open plains of Rohan."

"And a certain Queen, no doubt."

"Yes, but I've no doubt she can perform both our duties with striking accomplishment in my absence," Éomer smiled as Aragorn chuckled and nodded.

"Queens are like that," the Dunedain stated with a warm smile. "And I must congratulate you again on the impending birth of your child."

"Thank you," the King of Rohan returned the smile one more. "Lothíriel is both strong and healthy. I am confident this child will be born safely."

"May the Valar bless you, old friend."

"And you and your growing family, King Elessar."

"Let there be no formalities between us," Aragorn stated with a raised hand, the smile still pulling at the corners of his lips. Éomer nodded his head in accord. "Have you spoken to Imrahil yet?"

"Unfortunately no," the blond king frowned slightly. "We have both been much engaged. I would like to, though. Lothíriel sent him a letter announcing the pregnancy but I think he would be much relieved to hear from his daughter's husband that her health is well."

"No doubt. He may even set aside time to visit Rohan."

"You are both welcome, should you find the time amidst your chaotic schedules."

"How have your people's herds faired this spring," Aragorn inquired, the shift in topic giving the blond king pause. Éomer caught a tone in other man's voice that implied a question he wasn't about to speak aloud. With an uneasy sigh the King of the Horselords shifted in his chair.

"They've weathered the cold and rain as they have for years," he replied, his answer intentionally noncommittal. If Aragorn was going to offer Gondor's help he would have to say so.

"Hardy people, yours are," King Elessar responded smoothly, dropping his hand from the beard and watching his friend closely across the small table. "Gondor is fortunate to have such an ally."

Leave it to Aragorn to spin an insistence for support into a compliment. In spite of himself Éomer could not help but smile, though it was decidedly not as congenial as before. He knew his friend would not take a rebuff offensively. But Éomer was not here to disregard the Gondorian king's generous offer and rejecting it would be foolish.

"We will come to Gondor's aid without question. And Rohan is deeply fortunate to claim your allegiance. But I do not wish to mince words with you, Aragorn. I realize I have been less than receptive of late to any suggestion of help. And although we managed the winter without misfortune I would be imprudent to refuse your assistance again."

It was not something Éomer was particularly skilled at but he was realizing quickly that his pride could never outweigh the health and safety of his people. Aragorn, Elfhelm and Lothíriel had been painstakingly tolerant with him as he came to understand this truth and it gave him a moment of displeasure to grasp his error. But he was grateful to all of them and swore a private oath not to forget their patience. With a dip of his head, the King of Rohan broke his gaze as the other man raised a goblet toward him.

"You are a fine king, Éomer_. __Your uncle__, may he rest in the light of the Valar, would be proud of the prosperity you have brought your people.__Théoden judged his actions under the strictest of morals and I see the same fortitude in you, good friend. May Rohan thrive __immensely under your rule."_

"And to you," Éomer replied earnestly as he too raised his glass. "A wise and just King for Gondor in her time of need. I am ever amazed at the strength of your character and marvel at your will, my friend. Gondor will finally see the sun rise in the east without a cloud of darkness. May both our lands be blessed and our children strong."

"And our wives content," Aragorn added wryly, their toast was sealed and the kings' laughter echoed through the hall.

**A/N: Sorry for the wait. I'm working on another chapter now too, so expect that soon. Reviews of this one would be great because I'm not sure if I made the conflict clear enough. Also, I know the title of this chapter is lame. Don't judge me! Love you all!**


	33. Interrogation

**A/N: Warning – vulgar language ahead, but hopefully deliciously angsty for all you Beorn-lovers!**

Chapter 33: Interrogation

"You will speak your intentions, Dunlending." Elfhelm's words were decisively clipped as he stood before Beorn, his glare fixated on the prisoner. Beside him Lothíriel trained her expression to grim calmness that belied none of her anxiety over the situation.

The Marshal's reaction to the captor's identity was expected. It took some convincing on the Queen's part to ensure he didn't behead the Dunlending on sight. After a lengthy discussion the man agreed to speak with Beorn and hold off on maiming him until the King returned. For all Lothíriel's persuading, Elfhelm did not attempt any measure of civility as they stared warily at the prisoner. A torch cast wavering shadows across the cell floor, Beorn resting with his back against the wall, blue eyes obstructed by a mop of dark hair. He had yet to acknowledge their presence, which only served to incense the Marshal further.

"I may not have permission to kill you, wretch, but I do not expect the King will be displeased if you are without an ear," the man barked while taking a step toward the barred door. Lothíriel remained silent, hoping Beorn would speak up before Elfhelm made good on his threat. Although she'd shared his information with the Marshal it would be in Beorn's best interests to corroborate her story. Truthfully she had no desire to witness this discourse but royal duty and concern for Elfhelm's wrath kept her in place. She had never seen the man so livid, though she could hardly blame him. A part of her was equally embittered by Beorn's presence and demeanor.

"Open the door," came Elfhelm's brusque response to the Dunlending's silence. With a jingle of keys a guard hopped to action, pulling the creaking door aside enough for the Marshal to pass through. Though he was still chained Beorn was not without some defenses and as such a soldier accompanied Elfhelm, his hand trained on a sword. Standing several feet from the shadowed prisoner the Rohirric man made a snort of displeasure.

"Perhaps the loss of an appendage will loosen your tongue."

"A pity you do not possess the compassion of your Queen." His voice cut through the evening with unexpected clarity. After making his statement Beorn raised his eyes to stare with wolfish menace at the Marshal. "You strike first and ask later."

"The same could be said for you," Elfhelm retorted, his tone suggesting he wasn't nearly as surprised by the Dunlending's comment as Lothíriel. Beorn's blue gaze shifted from the Marshal to the Queen, his expression softening only slightly.

"Did your Queen not relay the subject of our conversation to you, horselord?" he asked without bothering to look at Elfhelm.

"She did and I am here for further explanation. Her Majesty does not need the burden of your presence on her mind."

"And yet she came to patch me up of her own volition."

"You are here for a purpose," Elfhelm reminded him threateningly, taking a step toward Beorn to block his view of the Queen. "By whom were you contacted?"

"I'm not your dog to be beaten into submission," Beorn hissed his voice dangerously low, eyes narrowed. "I am here to seek your King's assistance, not to be interrogated by a horse-fucking simpleton."

The guard at Elfhelm's side moved before Beorn completed his response, a swift kick to the man's ribcage doubling him over against the iron fetters. He rasped heavily as the assailant stepped back. Lothíriel steeled herself not to look away in repugnance, her expression faltering for but a moment. Violence was not something she could watch idly but it was not her place to reprimand the man. She hoped Beorn would cease his caustic obstinacy and just explain himself. But Lothíriel was no fool to this man's demeanor.

Heaving a single bitter cough, the Dunlending raised his eyes to Elfhelm and she could see the irate fire burning behind his glare. She had no doubt Elfhelm returned the glower with equal intensity. If Beorn wasn't careful he'd end up dying from the wounds inflicted by an infuriated Marshal before he ever saw Éomer.

"Do not speak to me of what you are," Elfhelm replied with measured scorn in his voice. "For I have witnessed the type of man you are, Beorn. And you will not arouse my sympathies after the atrocities you wrought upon Rohan's people."

"Always the victim," the Dunlending rasped, his breathing subdued and expression hostile. "Never considering the other side."

"Other side?" Lothíriel flinched as the Marshal cried out incredulously, the growl in his voice causing a rumbling echo about the narrow cell. "There is no _other side_ to your thoughtless violence!"

"You dare not talk to me of violence. What of the burning of the eastern villages?" Beorn's tone adopted an equally brutal quality as he snarled out a response. "Your men devastated a Dunlending camp of women and children! And you think to reproach me with tales of Rohan's misfortune while my people struggle to scrape out a living in the slovenly furrows of this land. I was mistaken to think I could seek an alliance with your kind. For all your finery and gold, you wallow in the shit of your pigs and horses like vermin –"

His words were drowned by the drawing of blades, Beorn's voice quickly succumbing to violent coughing and choking as two guards beat him into silence. Lothíriel could not manage to stay composed with this manner of brutality, her stomach churning at Beorn's distressing groans. Turning from the scene she held a hand to her mouth, hoping to overcome the nausea roiling in the pit of her stomach. She barely noticed an arm escorting her from the prison and into the night air. Once she was under control and her breathing steady the Queen closed her eyes. She was not naïve to the interrogations of soldiers but never had she been present at one so brutal.

It was evident neither Beorn nor Elfhelm would see eye to eye. Both were deeply embroiled in their own view of the past – so much so that any new threat to both Rohan and Dunlendings could not give them pause. She wasn't sure even Éomer could get beyond his hatred and disgust to distinguish the danger. She'd never seen Elfhelm, who'd always appeared jovial and level-headed to her, so blinded and violent. But she reminded herself grimly that he was a warrior, just like her husband. And he'd moved up the ranks to attain an honorable position among the Rohirric elite. It was not simply his sense of humor and equable nature that got him there.

"I am sorry, Lothíriel Queen." Elfhelm's voice was soft and contrite behind her. She turned to face him after composing herself. The anger had left his visage, though his complexion was warm from the temper he'd unleashed. "I should not have allowed myself to act so rashly."

"It is alright."

"May I accompany you back to Meduseld?" Lothíriel nodded as the rest of the guards filed out of the prison and the door was secured. They began a slow walk up the hill, Elfhelm's gaze trained on the ground. Light from the torches lit their way as the Queen voiced a pressing question.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes," he answered haltingly with a glance to her. She couldn't tell if embarrassment or guilt flashed within his dark eyes but he offered her a slight shrug nonetheless. "Perhaps it would be best to wait for Éomer King to return before we interrogate him further. He has the uncanny ability to inspire fury."

"That could be days," she replied with uncertainty. "If what he told me is true should there be some preventative measures?"

"How can we be assured he is here in earnest? Long have his ilk sought to ruin us."

"I cannot imagine a man as proud as he would allow this amount of humiliation just to plant false information."

"I am not Rohan's King so I cannot pass final judgment on him," Elfhelm remarked with a note of bitterness. "I cannot guess the man he is, my lady, for he seems no tamer than a wild beast. No doubt he'd bite off his own hand to escape."

"But he came here of his own choice," she pushed, hoping to encourage him to think beyond the prejudice that pervaded both sides. Elfhelm stopped just short of the door to regard her with a curious gaze.

"What would you have me do, my lady?"

"Look into his claims. Gather what information we can before the King returns so we can present a reasonable answer for Beorn's statements. If it is evident that he is conjuring this tale then let Éomer deal with him as he may. But if what he says is true then should we not prepare ourselves?"

"My lady I respect your insight and intellect. But there is a deep-seated hatred between our people that I do not think you realize. You are astute to suggest further inquiry and I shall make sure it happens but there is more to this than you see. And there are many obstacles to navigate if we were to even considering allying ourselves with the Dunlendings. It could prove disastrous."

Lothíriel sighed with a slow nod, her expression crestfallen. Here she was ready to champion her theory and ride into battle against the unknown enemy without any foresight into the matter. She'd been so dogged about the situation that it took a moment before Elfhelm's gentle criticism gave her pause to consider her words. This was an affair for warlords and captains, not Queens.

"I am not on a war campaign," she murmured with a frown as the door to Meduseld opened for them. They passed through the entry and stood in the long Hall opposite one another. "You understand this problem better than I, Elfhelm and I am sorry for my imprudent remarks."

"My Queen, Rohan maintains a legacy of wise and fair sovereigns. You showed your mettle tonight and Éomer will be glad to hear of your compassion and forethought."

"Thank you."

"What would you have me do with the prisoner? I do not suppose he'd be willing to divulge his secrets to me now, the dog."

"I will tend to his injuries tomorrow," she replied with a thoughtful frown. "Perhaps he will reveal more information when his wounds are cared for."

"I realize I cannot convince you not to look after him but your husband would never forgive me if I did not solicit you to bring a guard."

"I have no intention of seeing him alone," Lothíriel assured the man with a kind smile. Elfhelm returned it with one of his familiar grins, an expression that seemed so vastly detached from the man he was in the jail. With a deep bow the Marshal caught her gaze with a final nod.

"May your patience be rewarded, Majesty. I bid you goodnight."


	34. The Hand that Heals

**A/N: Firstly, I suck at titles – as you've noticed. Secondly, a couple people were asking for a good physical representation of Beorn (since we pretty much know what the other characters look like). It took me a while to decide but I finally settled on an actor that most people don't know about and only in a certain photo do I think he captures Beorn's essence (imagine a scruffier beard in these scenes). The actor is Colin O'Donoghue and for the sake of visual deliciousness (since I can't upload the photo here), Google his fine self and there's a photo of him in a black jacket with some stubble and gorgeous blue eyes. Enjoy! :)  
**

Chapter 34: The Hand that Heals

Pulling the shearling jacket closer to her body Lothíriel ducked her head against a gust of bitter wind. Spring claimed Rohan in earnest but the mountains sent a wintery gale into the valley this morning, reminding them that winter was not long departed. But the overcast skies that blanketed the dawn had parted, an April sun shining down optimistically on Edoras and warming the hopes for spring renewal. One hand holding the taupe jacket against the honey colored gown, the Queen blinked as strands of dark hair fell into her line of sight. She was dressed for comfort rather than prestige this morning, knowing full well the prisoner would use her status against her if he could. She appeared both warm and ready to begin the day's work, her aged calfskin boots having seen better days beneath the narrow skirts. No jewelry adorned her on this day and her curling hair had been plaited loosely and wrapped into a coronet about her head. It was her intention to seem as any other woman in Edoras, rather than a Queen.

Clutching the basket to her the Lothíriel blinked against the brightness as she traversed the narrow road to the jail. A guard accompanied her silently, though she wondered if he thought his Queen mad. It seemed absurd to the Rohirrim that a prisoner (especially a Dunlending) would be treated with such mercy. Lothíriel could sympathize with such bewilderment but she was a Healer at heart and could not overlook the suffering. And, she reasoned, if Beorn managed an infection before Éomer returned he'd likely not make it long.

Elfhelm had departed before dawn to make good on his promise to the Queen, bringing with him scouts to search for answers. She was indebted to the man for his loyalty, knowing he was doing this more out of deference to herself and Éomer than his own desire. If it were up to him the Marshal would probably have Beorn tied to four horses and quartered. Either way she couldn't be sure a fate wouldn't befall the Dunlending. Éomer's temper was easily fuelled at the thought of his enemies and she didn't know if the very sight of Beorn would blind him to caution.

Lothíriel had spent the night warring with herself over this situation. What if she was making a mistake? Playing right into Beorn's hands. He was exceptionally devious and intelligent – attributes that'd been made apparent during their first unceremonious meeting. Elfhelm still harbored a cavernous hatred for the ills Beorn and his men put them through that night. The Queen herself could not deny a thudding resentment and ire toward the Dunlendings. The Marshal was probably right to be cautious and hostile toward the prisoner. There were deep-seated prejudices above Lothíriel's head that made her feel childish in her relentlessness to heal Beorn.

"Hail, Lothíriel Queen," the jail ward greeted as he unlocked the door. She inclined her head in response and stepped into the musty, rank prison. The stench was strong and the light poor. The scent of putrid rotting flesh was not foreign to her, having borne witness to the foul humors of injuries from her days in the Healing Hall of Dol Amroth. She was thankful such experiences prepared her but it was not all together pleasant. And the light filtering through narrow slits in the wall made it difficult to ascertain any measure of detail.

The morning light illuminated the entrance of the jail, shrouding the cells in darkness and making it near impossible to see the prisoner. Only the sound of his measured breathing gave any indication he was present. Nodding to her guard to unlock his cell, Lothíriel swallowed her trepidation and began the work. Her plan for the Dunlending was straightforward but she wasn't entirely confident he or the Rohirrm would be amenable to it.

"Good morning," she began, unable to hide the hesitancy in her pitch. Beorn grunted in response prompting her to continue, her voice adopting a conversational tone. "No doubt you've acquired a new set of injuries to mend. I would see to them here but the light is so poor I'd end up doing more harm than good. The day is pleasant and there is a measure of privacy here so I will be tending to you outdoors."

As she spoke, the guard entered the dark cell and hauled the captive up, their shadowed forms interacting in the tenebrous light. The sound of chains and iron clanked in the confined space as Beorn was released from the manacle that bound him to the wall of his cell. As the guard marched him out of the aphotic space, Lothíriel could see his wrists were still shackled behind his back and she couldn't help but feel a twinge of relief. His composure was that of a prisoner, head hung in exhaustion or defeat, his feet dragging against the dirt floor. She noted his breathing was laborious though he made no attempt to hide a defensive growl at the Rohirric guard.

Lothíriel stepped out first, basket in hand as the spring morning greeted them with brilliance. The wind had dissipated leaving a briskness in the air, tempered by the warm sun. Beorn reacted strongly to the light, pulling away from the entrance as if to return to his caliginous cell. But the guard pushed him on, bidding him follow the Queen as she rounded the side of the jail. Several bales of hay lay piled beside the wall, some low enough to act as benches. Beorn was shoved upon one, his immediate response to keel forward with lack of balance and strength. The Rohirric man pulled him sharply up by his shoulder and steadied him on the bale. Lothíriel remained standing as she surveyed the Dunlending.

Welts of violet and scarlet marred his skin, his tunic ripped and abused such that it offered little warmth. Dried blood caked his neck and clumped his hair in tufts; his skin stained a ruddy complexion. The bruises flowered across his chest and up into his hairline, pallid yellow outlines denoting the older abrasions. His left eye was slightly swollen, the skin angry and abused. The wounds she'd seen to the day previous were hidden by bruises and fresh cuts. It seemed ridiculous that such a short beating could result in this array of injury but she recalled turning away from the worst of it.

"Thank you, Ion," she spoke kindly to the guard, setting her basket of implements down before the prisoner and taking a seat on a bale opposite him. "That will be all." She knew he would not depart but she wanted Beorn to not feel threatened by the Rohirric man's presence. With a stiff bow, Ion backtracked his steps to stand nearby but not close enough to breach privacy. Lothíriel suspected this was the best way to get Beorn to speak openly about his _visit_ to Edoras. She felt confident that he would not attempt anything stupid what with his hands shackled behind his back and Ion within close proximity.

After tying an ivory apron at the small of her back the Queen pulled the heavy canister of warm water from the basket and set to work preparing her tools. She felt his sapphire gaze on her, harsh in its appraisal but nonetheless unthreatening. She dipped a linen cloth in the steaming water and leaned forward slightly to press the compress to the side of his face. Careful not to push hard, Lothíriel stroked gently across his skin to remove the blood and grime. Beorn said nothing, his eyes fixated upon her face as she worked. It was a challenge not to wilt under his fierce gaze but she steeled herself to remain in control. He would not make her feel like some demure lady self-conscious and timid. The muscle in his jaw clenched against the pain causing her to withdraw her hand from his brow, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Get on with it," he muttered his voice much hoarser than before. There was a note of desolation within his statement but Lothíriel said nothing. She continued her progress until his face was clean of blood, sweat and dirt. He still looked worse for wear, the bruises now more illuminated against his complexion. She'd gone through three squares of thickly woven cloth, soiled and discarded at her feet, before she was satisfied.

"Once I finish, you will be given food and water," Lothíriel informed him briskly, her voice both authoritative and curt. "I hope you do not intend to inspire these men's wrath every evening. I do not think there is enough linen to patch you up each morning until the King returns."

"Then we must hope I succumb to my injuries and drop dead in my cell," he muttered, finally averting his eyes to stare at the ground. Lothíriel sat back to observe him before she administered the healing salve, the small jar resting in her palm.

"You could hold your tongue," she reminded him.

"No doubt you think that an simple task," he remarked sullenly before letting out a frustrated sigh. "When have you ever come face to face with your enemy and let him humiliate you like a beast?" he paused to take in a rattling sigh. "No, lady, I do not think you understand just what I have endured to ensure the safety of my people."

"You play games, never giving a straight answer when it could save you from their fury," Lothíriel commented with a frown. Beorn looked at her and for the first time she saw sorrow in his eyes. It was not the sorrow of unrequited love or a painful memory. It was the grave mourning of the inevitable.

"It is true," the Dunlending replied quietly. "Time leaks away as I wallow in this prison, my people living on a fool's hope that your husband will put aside our primordial resentment and unite against a common enemy."

"What do you know of this enemy?" she began applying the salve to his face gently, hoping her renewed activities would prompt him into explanation.

"Hooded men speaking in strange tongues," he answered softly. "Three of them on horseback came directly to kin of mine near the ruins of Isengard. They told him the time to unseat the King of Rohan was upon us."

"Isn't that your desire?"

"Since I was a babe," he affirmed with the hint of a grin, which faded with a wince as the salve stung an open cut. "But these foreign riders spoke of an allegiance between man and orc – a prospect I find suspicious. If I am to overthrow your King I will do so without the assistance of dim-witted half wild orcs. It was their kind that got us into dark dealings with the White Wizard. No, I would not place my trust in them."

He fell silent as she smoothed the last cut with a film of salve, blue eyes breaking from their gaze as his lids fell in exhaustion. A slow breath issued from his cut lips and he appeared almost peaceful in that moment, her fingers moving gently against his cheek. Lothíriel pulled her hand back and his eyes opened once more, lips parted as if to object to her departing. But he must've caught himself before the words could escape, his mouth shutting and gaze turning to a glare.

"It didn't fit together," he began again, a harshness coloring his tone. "We are few compared to the Easterlings and seemingly insignificant. I do not expect them to maintain the allegiance long after they get what they desire. As for the orcs – " he shook his head with a jerk "I wouldn't trust the bastards farther than I could toss them."

"Beorn you must tell this to the King when he returns," Lothíriel murmured, wiping her hand on the apron. "He would not break a sworn oath."

"It's getting him to swear the oath that might prove difficult," he muttered with childish scowl.

"He will understand the need to unite."

"No," Beorn corrected with a furtive glance at her. "You will convince him to understand. He'd just as quickly accept our aid then slaughter us after we dispatched the enemy."

"I cannot advocate your cause," Lothíriel stated with a guarded tone, pausing in her preparation of a compress for his ribs. "You came here to speak your intent and you will do so before the King. You cannot expect me to champion your purpose before my husband."

"My lady, do you honestly believe I came directly to the King of Rohan without a strategy to gain his ear?"

Lothíriel's grey eyes widened as the realization crystallized. He'd planned to use her to sway Éomer. And there she was like a half-wit playing right into Beorn's hand. To his credit he didn't seem to take pleasure in her sobering comprehension, his blue eyes watching at her intently.

_You idiot_, she chastised herself bitterly, her expression faltering. But she returned his gaze with a new question, dark narrow brows arching with curiosity.

"Seems foolish to tell me your plan before it comes to fruition," she challenged, hoping to sound partially confident. A dark smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he attempted a shrug, the pain of said action causing him to rethink it. Instead he opted for a slight canting of the head.

"Yes," Beorn conceded quietly. "But I find I do not enjoy manipulating your sympathies. If you speak on my behalf before your husband I would be grateful. If you do not I will try to persuade him to understand the situation as it is."

Lothíriel couldn't tell if he was genuinely accepting failure of his original plan or if he was just using this as a con to incite her pity. He was exceptionally crafty, which made her wary to trust him at all. But the way he spoke of his people and the passion he'd expressed in his hatred toward this new enemy told her he was not here simply to inveigle her and Éomer into helping.

"I figured you were the most apt to assist me in my cause," he continued quietly. "After you displayed compassion and kindness toward my brother I knew I could convince you our peril is real. And in that I did not deceive you, my lady. I will do everything in my power to protect the Dunlendings from the evil that seeps out from Mordor."

"Who are you, Beorn?" she inquired slowly, her tone implying interest rather than suspicion.

"No one of great distinction in this age. But I claim Wulf son of Freca's bloodline on my mother's side," he murmured without looking at her. "That lineage is meaningful to your husband, I'm sure."

"He is not ignorant of the past," she agreed, offering him a flask of warm tea. He accepted tilting his head so she could pour it steadily. After finishing a healthy gulp, Lothíriel returned the cork to the skin and set it down.

"I have no interest in taking up a seat in your hall, my lady Lothíriel." Her eyes jumped back to him as he intoned her name, his own gaze trained on her face. "Your people face the same threat as my own. I ask only that your husband consider an alliance. If not, I fear Dunlendings will be wiped from the land, lost in the records and known only as irritants and thorns in your side."

"He will do right by your people, Beorn."

"Thank you, Queen of Rohan."

Beorn shifted against his bonds and they sat in silence as Lothíriel readied the next items. It felt oddly comfortable to interact thusly, as if they were old friends. She couldn't quite explain it to herself but she felt at ease with the Dunlending before her. Though she'd never admit it to anyone she was becoming fond of him, though not enough to forgive him for his actions against her men. But he was growing on her in an uncanny and significant way. His drive to keep his people out of harm's way was impressive and, had they not started out as enemies, might inspire a friendship between himself and Éomer. Both were annoyingly stubborn and strong willed. And they shared a strong sense of leadership, forsaking personal pride to better the state of their respective followers. It was a strange situation, indeed.

Lothíriel prepared the next set of linens to begin bandaging his middle. It appeared he broke a rib or at least bruised the bones at the hands of Elfhelm's men. She set out the long strips to wrap around his torso and keep the bones in place while they healed before drawing more warm water from the canister, though his expression gave her pause. An arched eyebrow indicated an unspoken inquiry, which encouraged a sly grin from the man.

"Tell me, am I to suffer a sponge bath next, my lady?"

**A/N: Excuse the inevitable typos in the chapter! I will fix them sooooon. Okay, so I deviated a teensy bit from the original regarding the Dunlendings after the defeat of Sauron because I felt it added good conflict to the story. Just sayin' it so I don't get harangued for veering off canon-course. Also, I'd like some important input from you lovely folks so kindly respond to these two queries:**

**Should I continue writing witty banter between Lothy/Beorn in this setting/scene (I have no problem writing it, but if it's becoming boring to read, I can move right along)**

**Would you like to see a chapter/section from Beorn's perspective?**

**And have no fear, Lothíriel only has eyes for Éomer. But there will be further angst and emotional despair on Beorn's part for his untouchable (but clearly very touchable) Queen. And I will bring her pregnancy in more later on but refrained from doing so since this bit takes place in a short time span. And Éomer will be gone for a month, so she won't be eight months along by the time he returns. At this point she's like… two months-ish? And more angsty missing-his-wife from Éomer soon. And a reunion with Eowyn. And Lothy's brothers. Hurray! **

**But yes, please answer the two questions above so I can plan my next few chapters. Loves and cupcakes!**

**~ S**


	35. Between Siblings

Chapter 35: Between Siblings

"He has Father's eyes," Éomer commented quietly as his young nephew sat playing in the small garden nearby. The King and his sister sat on the patio of Minas Tirith's Citadel, overlooking the vastness of Pelennor Fields, its once fertile lands finally reclaiming strength. The War had done much to devastate Gondor but Éomer was impressed by the efforts Aragorn had put forth to both enliven the people and rebuild the land. A pleasant breeze cooled the air on this agreeable afternoon, the siblings finding a moment of respite to sit together and catch up. Shifting his gaze from Elboron to his sister, Éomer caught her loving smile.

"He does," she agreed before taking a sip of tea. "He is a good boy, aren't you Elbie?"

"Yes, Mama," the child answered distractedly as he tried to dig a pebble from the rich earth. Eowyn smiled wistfully as her son continue to sully himself in the dirt, his auburn hair catching the sunlight with fiery sparks. Éomer's first meeting with the boy the day before had been quite sudden. Eowyn and Faramir were not expected in the White City for a fortnight, but as Éomer walked down the corridor with Aragorn and Arwen, having just quit the Great Hall of Feasts, a toddler came waddling quickly around the corner, colliding solidly with Éomer's knee.

"Elboron," Arwen cried, kneeling down to pick the boy up where he'd landed. Aside from a sniffle or two, the child seemed entirely unphased his dark eyes finding recognition in the Elf Queen's face. A smile and something that resembled a sentence erupted from Elboron as Arwen held him with a smile. Soon after the sounds of feet could be heard moving quickly down the passage from which the boy had emerged.

"Elbie?" the King recognized his sister's voice, her worried tone indicating she was less than pleased with her son's sudden flight. As she rounded the corner, the vision before her stopped her long enough for Éomer to enjoy the look of sudden surprise and delight before she rushed to him, nearly knocking him over with a hug. He embraced her with a laugh as the boy sat comfortably in Arwen's arms watching his mother.

"It is so good to see you, Brother," the Princess of Ithilien exclaimed as she stepped back a wide smile, her eyes twinkling. Having enough of this man stealing his mother's affection, Elboron began to squirm in the Elf's arms until she passed him to Eowyn, who shifted him to her hip and pointed to Éomer.

"Elbie, this is your uncle. Éomer, King of Rohan." The boy stared at his kinsmen without recognition before burying his face in his mother's side, abashed. Aragorn and Arwen chuckled as the child peeked out at them, smiling at their laughter. Éomer leaned toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder with a grin.

"Hail, Elboron son of Faramir," the King of Rohan stated with a gentle voice and a quick wink. "You have your mother's ability to get into trouble it seems." Eowyn smirked in response as Éomer stood straight and turned his gaze to Aragorn with raised eyebrows.

"I thought you told me my sister wasn't expected for another several days?"

"Oh," answered Aragorn with a glance to his wife, his expression feigning surprise. "Did I? Surely I said it was today they would arrive. My apologies, friend."

The men shared a grin as Eowyn rolled her eyes. Arwen shook her head knowingly before greeting the Princess with a quick half embrace. As the women exchanged news, Éomer caught Elboron glancing at him from his lofty position on Eowyn's hip. He was a handsome lad with dark eyes and rust colored hair, his features owing to each parent.

"Where is Faramir?" Arwen inquired, her slender eyebrows arching over wide uncanny eyes. Although initially uncertain of her, Éomer had become partial to the Elf for her tranquility and pleasant nature. He found multiple similarities between her and Lothíriel, which only increased his desire to return home to see his wife. But he smiled through the idle talk, listening as his sister explained that her husband would be there a day later, for he was still attending to his duties in Ithilien. Éomer was relieved that he was afforded this opportunity to spend time with his sister, considering the original arrangements gave him only a day in her company before he started the long journey home.

The next afternoon found Eowyn and her brother enjoying a measure of privacy on the dais. They'd both sat through councils and meetings before finally having some leisure time. Arwen departed earlier with a retinue to make ceremonial visits to nearby towns and Aragorn had taken this time to be with his son so the siblings remained on their own, seated in wooden chairs near the Court of the Fountain.

"How is Lothíriel?" Eowyn inquired after a moment, her gaze at her son. Éomer was pleased to see his sister looking so healthy and joyful after the sorrow and misfortune she'd suffered for so long. It did his heart well to know she was happy with her new family, her personality blossoming mightily.

"Well" Éomer replied, leaning over to rest his forearms on his knees, his eyes on the horizon. "Though I did not wish to leave her alone for such a time. I am sure she is managing."

"Of course she is," his sister informed him with a soft smile. "She suits you, Brother."

"Oh?" Éomer turned his attention to the Princess, eyebrows raised with intrigue. "When did you spend any significant amount of time with her to make that estimation?"

"Your wife was among the chief Healers here during the War," Eowyn reminded him.

"Yes, I heard. But as I recall you spent most of your time enamored of a certain Captain," he retorted with a sardonic smirk.

"I wasn't finished," his sister snapped scowling, though her eyes were mirthful. "Lothíriel, her father and brothers were at my wedding. I tried to persuade you to dance with her."

"You did?" Éomer sat back against the chair, the memory somewhat faded in his mind. There were many court women present during the celebration and he was encouraged to dance with all of them, which he distinctly remembered rebuffing. Éomer son of Eomund was no dancer.

"Indeed," Eowyn answered with a sly grin, setting the mug of tea on the little table between them. Elboron had tired of playing in the dirt, the boy's focus now occupied by a bird that preened itself near a bush. "But it seemed she wasn't too keen on having you as dance partner either."

"Really?" Éomer's expression caused his sister a hearty laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck with embarrassment. Had he met Lothíriel before their wedding and made an ass of himself?

"I doubt she took it personally."

"That was the visit in which Imrahil mentioned a union between Rohan and Dol Amroth. But I cannot remember seeing her there."

"You were too busy interrogating Faramir."

"Oh," he frowned as he recalled having too many pints and sitting his new brother-in-law down and barraging him with questions. With a lop-sided grin, Éomer shrugged. "A brother can't be too careful. Even if his sister is a Wraith-slaying shieldmaiden."

"How does she fair with the pregnancy?" Eowyn inquired, intentionally shifting topics. She didn't much speak of her heroics on the battlefield and often rejected invitations to discuss it. Éomer respected her need for privacy, knowing there were times when he too wished to forget the events from the War.

"It is early yet so I cannot tell. I believe she is concerned for the child's health considering the last misfortune," Éomer trailed off quietly, looking down in a moment of fragility that had him at a loss for words. Eowyn placed a hand on his knee, giving him an encouraging squeeze as she leaned closer to the King.

"You have rightfully mourned the loss of that life. But now celebrate the life that is to come. Lothíriel may not tell you this directly, but she will need you to be strong for her in these coming months." Eowyn's voice was soft, the comfort in her words giving Éomer pause before he turned to look at her.

"I'm not sure what I can do for her," he confessed tightly. It was not in his nature to divulge such personal thoughts but Eowyn had a way of drawing them out. "We have been contented of late but I don't know if that is enough for her."

"Dear brother, you cannot think this way," she chided gently. "If your interactions have been agreeable then do not concern yourself with misgivings. Lothíriel does not seem the kind to feign happiness if she was otherwise. You do care for her, yes?"

"Of course. I care deeply for her. And I want her to be happy with our people and me. But," he stopped, his gaze turned downward. The Princess of Ithilien waited patiently until he could find the words to say, his voice tinged with remorse "I fear if she loses this child there will be no heir for Rohan."

"Éomer! Do not speak thus!" Eowyn's sudden reproach brought his attention back to her. He was surprised to see disapproval in her fair eyes. "You certainly cannot say such things before your wife."

"I wouldn't," he assured her with a frown, glancing at Elboron who was stirred from his playing by his mother's voice. "I do not want her to grow to resent me."

"Oh brother, she will not. Show her the kindness and gentleness I know you have somewhere deep down in there," she pointed to his chest with the hint of a smile. "Just think, Éomer. Come this time next year you will have your own child."

"A terrifying prospect," the King noted dryly.

"Oh stop," Eowyn grinned before sitting back. "You'll be an excellent father. You will have to show your children to all the places we went with Thoedred and Elfhelm. You can take them to the Fenmarch where Theodred lost his best shoes. Remember how cross Mother was that we took him there! And you can go to the Entwade with the spring foals."

The pair smiled at shared memories of their childhood, the scenes still vibrant in their minds even after so many years of strife and sorrow. They'd shared a blissful childhood, adopting Theodred as another sibling. Their mother showed the boy endless affection since his own died at his birth. They were a mighty trio, though Eowyn was often traded for Elfhelm on account of her sex. She still managed to follow them on nearly every excursion. After a moment, a shadow crossed Éomer's face as he glanced at his sister.

"To think that Theodred might've been King," he murmured.

"His death still haunts you," Eowyn noted with a sigh.

"Yes," the man answered but turned to her with a smile. "His life was short but blessed. Béma protects him in the Hall of our Fathers."

Eowyn nodded her assent as Elboron crawled toward her, hands, clothing and faced soiled with dirt. She smiled and picked him up, setting him upon her lap. Taking the cloth napkin she cleaned the worst of it off, Éomer observing silently. The boy didn't appear terribly fussy, though he made a face or two when his mother attempted to brush his hair with her fingers. As he watched, Éomer tried picturing Lothíriel holding his child and realized it was a very satisfying image.

"Is this how your father will see you after these days apart?" Eowyn intoned to the little Prince, using her thumb to smudge away a line of dirt from the boy's forehead. "Luckily he is besotted with you and I doubt any amount of griminess will change that."

The boy smiled widely, turning to look at his uncle with an expectant expression. He then reached his chubby arms out toward the King, fingers opening and closing, his upper body leaning toward his uncle. Éomer looked to his sister who merely nodded pointedly toward the child.

"Me?"

"He doesn't tolerate waiting," she informed him with a grin. Éomer frowned, holding his arms out awkwardly to receive the child. Elboron for his part was entirely placid, allowing the foreign man to lift him off his mother's lap and sit him upon his own. Éomer stared at the child, his hands supporting the little Prince as he sat on his knee, their expressions mirrored. Both seemed entranced by the newness of the other. The lady stood and stretched as a servant appeared to remove her tea. Looking down at the pair who'd broken their staring contest to observe the Princess, Eowyn smiled.

"Holding a child suits you."

"You think so?" Éomer's voice was quiet as Elboron reached for his beard, the child's mouth producing unintelligible sounds.

"Indeed. So much so that I might have to warn Lothíriel that she'll be assuming your duties once the baby arrives."

**A/N: Shorter chapter but I wanted to put some Éomer love in since things are so intense back in Rohan. I think I will do another Éomer-centered chapter before I revisit Lothy/Beorn. Also, I may skip ahead a few days/weeks for both perspectives, but you'll know either way. Also a BIG thank you to my Beta, thehobbitivy, and TheJewellersHand for her suggestions. I love ya, friends! Thanks to all of you for your support.**

**Éomer-love and cupcakes,  
~ S**


	36. Gifts

Chapter 36: Gifts

Éomer awoke to a cloudless blue sky, the sun glinting brightly in his periphery. He lay upon uneven ground, grass tickling his skin. For a moment he thought he might be lying wounded on Pelennor Fields, the victim of an orc or Easterling. But as he took a moment to grasp his bearings Éomer realized he lay in a tunic, not armor and could detect no indication of injury. Craning his head to the side he recognized the rough hillside of his homeland, the warmth of the sun rivaling the relief flooding through him. He was not stranded upon the fields of war awaiting a slow death or the merciful blade of a sympathetic companion. Long had he suffered those nightmares but it seemed this was not one.

Sitting slowly, the sound of pleasant laughter graced his ears. It seemed far off, echoing across the terrain as the wind rippled the grasses. It was summer by the looks of the vegetation and the heat radiating from the earth. Éomer was bemused by this, his memory harkening back to his visitation to Gondor. What dream had he strayed into? More perplexing was the small form curled beside him. With a frown, the King of Rohan shifted slightly to get a better view of the little one. Nestled against his hip, the child began to stir as Éomer moved but did not wake. Before he could investigate further, the sound of laughter rose up again as a form appeared at the crest of a nearby hill.

Lothíriel came strolling across the sage colored grass, a baby settled upon her hip. She looked positively radiant, her dark hair twisting in the light breeze. Her face was flushed from her ascent up the hill a smile lighting her face as she saw Éomer. The hem of the lavender dress flourished at her feet as she made her way toward her husband. Éomer could not help but return the smile as his beautiful wife came to stand above him.

"Elies was enamored of the horses," she stated, seating herself beside him and transferring the baby girl to the ground. The dark thatch of hair on the child's head glinted richly under the sunlight as she looked at Éomer. Lothíriel watched as the baby reached for a blade of tall grass, entranced by thin stalk as it wound around her chubby hand. The Queen leaned against her husband, gazing then at the sleeping boy next to him.

"Elfwine slumbers on," she observed quietly, reaching across Éomer to tuck a strand of golden hair behind the boy's eye. Unmoved, the child made a face before curling closer to the king's hip. Éomer was speechless. Surely this was some brilliant fantasy.

"Are you well?" Lothíriel's grey eyes caught his gaze with a flash of concern, her hand winding around the baby's waist so she would not stray. Éomer nodded with a smile as his wife as she settled closer to him. Although this was surely a dream, he could smell the richness of the earth and feel the heat of her body, his expression relaxing. He felt such peace and serenity laying here in the sun with his family. Perhaps it was a premonition. He dearly hoped so.

As the dream lingered on, Éomer felt a shift in the air. He couldn't quite determine what it was, but as Lothíriel lay sleeping beside him in the grass, he realized there was something off. After lifting the boy to put him beside his mother, Éomer picked the baby up and stood. Lothíriel and the boy did not stir, resting peacefully beside one another. The little girl in his arms gurgled appreciatively, her toothless smile warming his heart. She had Lothíriel's hair and lips and his eyes. It was certainly the finest dream he'd had in some time. All the same, he took a glance down at his wife and son snoozing and shifted the girl in his arms. Walking a short length away, Éomer tried to locate the source of his sudden discomfort. The landscape had not changed and the sun still exuded heat upon them as if nothing had changed. But there was something amiss.

As he tried to search for it Éomer felt himself being pulled from the throes of sleep, regaining consciousness steadily. The scenery began to fade, the baby evaporating from his arms slowly as if she were a specter. As he fought to retain this dream-state he caught sight of a figure standing beyond his wife's sleeping form. Trying to walk toward them, Éomer found himself trudging as if stuck in mire, unable to return to Lothíriel. The figure did not move, watching like a phantom at the edge of the dream. He couldn't discern much of the form save for dark hair and piercing blue eyes, which all but glowed amidst the darkening scene.

Éomer woke gradually, frustration and anger clouding his mind. It pained him to return to the present where he lay alone in a bedroom in Minas Tirith. Reality set in as the King of Rohan begrudgingly blinked sleep from his eyes. Despite the delightful pleasure he experienced in the dream he could not shake the feeling of trepidation and threat from the individual stalking the darkness. The man was definitely not familiar, but nor was he foreign. This thought plagued the King as he made ready for his final full day in Gondor.

A leisurely breakfast with Aragorn, Arwen, Eowyn and Faramir set the day off well. There was only one council meeting scheduled for the day, the rest of the hours available for Éomer to do as he pleased. He lunched with his brother-in-law, far more comfortable with the man than he'd been on his sister's wedding day.

"I regret arriving so late," the Prince of Ithilien commented before finishing his tankard of ale. Éomer offered a disarming shrug as he leaned back in his chair. They'd shared an amiable leisurely lunch discussing the various matters of their respective lands.

"We all do what we must," the King of Rohan replied with a slight smile. He was warming up to Faramir and found himself enjoying the man's quiet observational manner. He was a beneficial ally to have. "You have both a city and a family to attend to. I dare not fault you for letting either come before making a visit."

"You are sure you must set out tomorrow?"

"Indeed," Éomer nodded, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair. "Rohan has been without her King for long enough."

"As has its Queen," Faramir returned with a simpering smile. The King raised his eyebrows as the man chuckled lightly. "Has my cousin taken to running the whole place on her own?"

"Most likely," Éomer answered with a return grin. He paused to take a bite of bread before continuing. "You were close with Lothíriel?"

"Closer with her brothers, I admit. But I spent many summers with her between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth. In truth, she was closer to Boromir. I have fond memories of her as a girl when my father would send us to the sea."

"She misses the ocean," Éomer murmured with a touch of regret, his gaze downward. "I can see it in her eyes when she thinks I am not looking."

"It is difficult to move away from something so familiar," Faramir agreed with a nod. "But do not worry yourself over it. From her letters it seems Lothy has found a place among your people. She is happy in Rohan."

"I am glad to hear it."

"You would be made aware if she was unhappy, Éomer King. Let me assure you. Her letters sound cheerful of late. Are you looking forward to becoming a father?"

Éomer's gaze jerked up to meet Faramir's inquisitive stare. No one had put it so bluntly and after the bliss of his dream, he realized it was constantly on his mind. When Faramir smiled at Éomer's silence, the King of Rohan cleared his throat and readjusted himself in the chair. Scratching at his trimmed beard, Éomer nodded with a smile.

"Yes," he answered at length. He was at first worried Faramir would think him insincere but the jovial grin faded into a knowing smile. The other man extended a hand to clap the King's shoulder.

"You're a nervous wreck until you see the little one's face," the Prince or Ithilien assured him. Éomer glanced at him as he retracted his hand and relaxed into his chair.

"I pray Lothíriel remains in good health," he murmured. It was not like him to divulge his concerns to a man he wasn't fully comfortable with. "And the child too."

"She will be well," Faramir replied with an understanding and assertive nod. "She's always been a strong girl. And spring is a good time for a woman to be with child. No ice or cold to chill her bones."

Éomer nodded his agreement and they sat in comfortable silence until the servants removed the plates. Faramir then excused himself to see to his son. Éomer was left at an empty table with the shadow of the dream plaguing his mind. It would've been a blissful premonition had the shadowy figure not tainted the final moments. Éomer was losing the memory of the individual as the day wore on but he knew the man was not entirely unfamiliar. Something about his countenance and striking eyes lingered in Éomer's mind and made him exceptionally uneasy. So engrossed in this thoughts was the King that he nearly broke the hand that silently lay upon his shoulder.

"By the breath of Bema," he hissed, simultaneously standing and turning to find the halfwit dumb enough to shake him from his reverie. Before him stood a lanky man with a lopsided grin, windblown hair and grey eyes. Amrothos, brother of Lothíriel.

"Hail, King of Rohan. Never did the Horselords have such a jumpy sovereign," the man offered an affable smirk as he bowed before the King. Éomer's face revealed annoyance but quickly adopted a sardonic grin at the other's words.

"Hail, Prince. Never did Dol Amroth have such a foolish, one-handed son."

The other man laughed deeply, putting Éomer at ease despite momentary wariness. Lothíriel's closest brother in age had a streak for the fanciful and mischievous. Though he was a skilled warrior and a loyal follower of the King, Amrothos was known for his antics in Minas Tirith, Dol Amroth and among his family. Lothíriel and Elphir had regaled Éomer with stories of their youth, Amrothos' tomfoolery chief among their memories. Even when he'd met the man for the first time years ago, Rohan's King immediately noted the spark of trouble in the other's eyes – reminiscent of Elfhelm. After clasping the Prince's arm in a warrior's greeting, Éomer indicated to the empty chair.

"No, thank you, Horselord," Amrothos declined with a cant of his head. "I could no sooner sit than feel the urge to fidget. If you are not embroiled in the crisis of kings, I entreat you to walk with me to the stable."

"I would be honored," Éomer nodded, following the man. Amrothos was perhaps a year or two his junior, but the youthfulness of his features and the light in his eyes suggested the countenance of a boy. His hair was more auburn than his sister's, catching the rays of the sun with occasional flashes of red. Like his siblings, his features were strong and carried Elven heritage, though his skin was of a more ruddy quality – brought about by his years at sea. The brightly colored scarf tied around his head was likely the bane of the court-folk in Gondor.

"When did you arrive?"

"This morning," Amrothos answered, unceremoniously sidestepping a guard as the men quitted the dining hall. They strode down the palace hallway, offering an occasional nod to passersby and members of the court. The Prince had a swagger in his step and a roguish grin that caught the eye of many a fine lady.

"Is your father among your company?"

"No," the Prince replied with a momentary wink to a young woman who passed them with a ceremonial curtsey, her eyes downcast as a blush spread up her neck. Éomer could hardly contain a smirk at his companion's demeanor. Handsome, rakish and wealthy Amrothos had no dearth of available women but the man was an endless flirt. Although he found that characteristic an irritant in others there was something about Amrothos that didn't aggravate Éomer as much. Perhaps it was his intense loyalty to Aragorn or the respectful manner in which he conducted himself around other men or his love for Lothíriel. But there was no arrogance or deception to him, only the attributes of a mischievous boy.

"What brings you to the seat of Gondor?" the King of Rohan queried as they stepped into the sunlight. Minas Tirith was buzzing with activity but both men were offered bows and respectful salutations as they passed. Amrothos shrugged with a vague wave of his hand.

"This and that," he replied, chuckling when Éomer cast him a glance. "Nothing secretive, mind you. My father's entangled in some nonsense regarding the Corsairs. Sent his little whipping boy to handle the affairs of the King here in Minas Tirith."

"Aren't you a bit petulant to be a whipping boy?"

"Of course I am," Amrothos granted cheerfully. "I was referring to my dear brother, Erchirion. I'm just here for the feasting and the ladies."

Éomer responded with a laugh and an indulgent shake of his head. The man may be an excellent warrior but off the battlefield he was a rascal. They reached the stables where their horses were housed, finding it relatively empty. It could hardly be called a barn given the immaculate condition of the place; the floors were swept hourly and the walls looked as though they'd never seen a cobweb. A stable boy fetched their respective steeds; though the men declined to have their horses tacked. Taking up a brush, Éomer set to work on Firefoot's coat. Amrothos began methodically removing the dust and hay from his own gelding nearby.

"Have you got anything for my sister's nameday?" the Prince asked casually, glancing up from the bay's narrow withers. Éomer paused mid-brush to stare at his companion, eyebrows raised. Lothíriel's nameday? Amrothos broke into a hearty laugh, his teeth flashing pearly in the dim light as his voice echoed among the rafters.

"Don't tell me she forgot to mention it!"

"Is… is it soon?" Éomer queried, feeling embarrassment flood his mind.

"Less than a fortnight," the Prince replied still chuckling. "I have gifts from our family for you to bear to Rohan. Worry not, Horselord, my sister has probably forgotten it herself."

"What does one get their wife?"

"You're asking the wrong Prince," the Gondorian man answered woefully. "I used to give her frogs and slugs under her bedsheets. Inquire with Elphir or Erchirion. Or our cousin, Faramir. They'd likely give you a more suitable answer than I."

"But they aren't here," Éomer pointed out, having stopped grooming entirely to address Amrothos. "Do I get her clothing?" the expression on the Prince's face told him that was a poor choice. "Jewelry?" another face. "Then what? I have only today to manage an acceptable gift for her."

"Is her bugger of a horse still alive?"

"Yes."

"Well never mind."

"I need your assistance. You are my brother by marriage," Éomer reminded him, pointing one end of the bristled brush at the man accusingly. "If you do not help me and I end up getting her something she despises I will place blame solely on your shoulders."

"A blow dealt most cruelly, _brother_," Amrothos winced and shook his head. "I would receive a beating no doubt."

"Well then? A suggestion at least." The Prince of Dol Amroth pondered this question for a moment, taking long brush strokes across the bay's coat, his face set in concentration. Éomer waited silently, his chore all but forgotten as he pondered a fitting gift for his wife. He wanted to bestow her with something she would adore and as well as something practical. She was not a woman won over with trinkets and baubles. As such, it seemed a poor choice for her nameday. The more he thought on it, the more pressure Éomer felt to get her something perfect. After several moments, the King was ready to prompt his companion again before the man looked up with a grin.

"I have it!"

**A/N: Another long wait. I sorries! Lame chapter name but I'm not majorly skilled at titling the chapters. Also, in case you hadn't noticed, I changed the name of this story from "Smoke and Shadow" to "Heartlines." Just seemed more appropriate. Please let me know your thoughts on the gift Éomer should get his loving Queen. A Lothy chapter is comin' up. 33**


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